


But still, like dust, I'll rise

by TheCrownprincessBride



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV First Person, Timeline What Timeline, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrownprincessBride/pseuds/TheCrownprincessBride
Summary: AU. Warlord!Geralt has conquered part of the Continent with Consort!Jaskier and his right hand Eskel, his sorceresses Yennefer and Triss, and his Child Surprise, Ciri. They live and hold court in Kaer Morhen with many other Witchers.After a diplomatic fiasco, Geralt gets sent a tribute from the Archduke of Rinde to appease him. The problem is that it's a human. A girl. And she hasn't come entirely voluntarily.But maybe a pack of wolves is just what she was looking for?~~~"The books made Witchers out to be only slightly better than the monsters they hunted, and the rumours about the Warlord were…certainly exaggerated, I hoped. He was painted as a demon, brutal and cruel beyond measure. And I was to be his prey..."
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Eskel (The Witcher)/Reader, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 278
Collections: Inspired by inexplicific Accidental Warlord AU





	1. Bitter, twisted lies

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Disclaimer:  
> I do not own The Witcher or even the idea for Warlord!Geralt. This fic was inspired by "With a Conquering Air" by inexplicifics. I loved her story so much, I dreamed about it. The next morning I had this idea in my head, and I couldn't get rid of it, so I had to write it down. I sincerely hope inexplicifics doesn't mind the similarities to her story, and the mess I made of it.  
> I can only recommend her writing, so go over there and read it! :)
> 
> A/N: Well, as I said, the plot bunny held me at knife point and forced me to write this down, so here we go. I wanted to write a One-Shot because I don't have the time for a Mulit-chapter fic. Worked extremely well. So, there well be at least three more installments.
> 
> I've watched the Netflix series and read tons of fanfiction (well, I watched my boyfriend play The Witcher, but I guess that doesn't count). This is extremly AU anyway, bear that in mind.
> 
> I don't have a beta. And I'm not a native, so this is not as elegant as it could be, and I'm sure there will be mistakes.
> 
> Title taken from: Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
> 
> Finally, before the fun begins: TRIGGER WARNING: Swearing, violence and mentions of (past) rape/non-con but nothing graphic (and not commited by the Witchers!).

Eskel, right hand to the White Wolf, Warlord of the North, watched the horse-drawn carriage approach with furrowed brows. It was late autumn; the leaves had turned from red to brown and the earth was covered with frost every morning. The high mountain tops were glowing with snow, but Kaer Morhen had been spared so far.

It was late in the year for visitors, and even later for tributes, which the states under the White Wolf's command insisted on sending. So late in the season, the roads were dangerous, often flooded, and an early snow could interrupt the journey without the travelling party ever reaching their destination.

Judging from the uniforms of the soldiers, they came from Redania. That meant a whole month of travelling. The soldiers were lucky if they'd made it back before the brunt of the winter.

Eskel could guess what this was about. The Archduke of Rinde had made some very unfortunate decisions, including banning dwarves from visiting taverns, despite the treaty Redania had ratified to respect the White Wolf's laws. And these laws said that all non-humans may not be discriminated against.

The ensuing diplomatic fiasco had been swiftly dealt with by Eskel and the White Wolf's Consort, Jaskier, former Viscount de Lettenhove (he'd renounced his titles), and court bard of Kaer Morhen. The king of Redania had profoundly apologised, scared that the White Wolf might decide to conquer the rest of his kingdom; the Archduke had been forced to abdicate and his son had taken his place; all laws discriminating against non-humans had instantly been revoked, all within a single day.

Jaskier had pronounced it a splendid day, but Eskel thought it'd been rather tedious.

This tribute probably was another apology to sway the White Wolf's favour. The carriage, however, didn't look as if it was carrying grain, or any kind of food really. It looked like it carried a _human_.

The black monstrosity stopped a few feet away, and the soldiers dismounted, bowing hastily.

"Sir," one of them began, "we are here to deliver a gift from the Archduke of Rinde, Ferdinant, the first of his name." He gestured towards the carriage and the two beautiful, but exhausted horses in front of it.

_Maybe the carriage itself was the gift?_ Eskel wondered. _But what would the White Wolf need a carriage for, especially here in the mountains?_

But then, Eskel listened closer. Beneath the accelerated heartbeat of the five soldiers, there was a sixth one, equally terrified. Another human.

The soldier bowed again, intimidated by Eskel's stoic façade. He ripped the door of the carriage open, and the sixth heartbeat jumped. The smell of utter terror reached Eskel's nose, and he almost flinched.

Whoever was in the carriage certainly hadn't come of their own free will.

"May I present, Christina, former duchess of Rinde," the soldier said and a small hand appeared on the side of the coach.

A young woman stepped out, barely eighteen if Eskel had to guess, wearing a fine silken gown that was much too thin for the season and almost as bright as the clothes Jaskier liked to wear. The blue dress was rumpled, as if she'd worn it for days; it smelled like forest, and rotten leaves, and smoke, and underneath the faint scent of sweat and something unpleasant Eskel couldn't quite catch. Christina held herself rigidly upright, meeting Eskel's eyes despite her fear. They were of a warm brown with a dash of dark green, like a coniferous forest in summer. Her hair was brown with the slightest highlights of dark honey, messily held together by a hairpin.

She was pale under her bronze skin and her fingers were shaking ever so slightly. Instantly, Ekel's eyes fixed on her hands. There was dirt under her fingernails and one nail was chipped. There were very faint rope marks around her wrists as if they'd been tied together, barely noticeable for anyone who wasn't a Witcher.

Instantly, Eskel traced her for further injuries, but if there were any more, they were covered by her gown and cape.

"My lord," Christina said and curtsied in perfect court fashion. Her movement was too controlled, though, as if she fought through the ache in her limbs – something Eskel was familiar with from his life before he'd been the right hand to the White Wolf.

Finally, Eskel focused on the words the soldier had spoken. " _Former_ duchess of Rinde?" he ground out, and a muscle in Christina's jaw twitched, a barely held back flinch.

"I am – was – the current Archduke's youngest sister," she explained, her voice stronger than Eskel expected. "After my family has fallen in disgrace, my engagement to the Count de Graaf's son was… cancelled." The smell of pain weaved through the fear, so sharp that Eskel almost couldn't stand it. "My brother found a better use for me."

It was well known that the Wolf's court wouldn't accept anybody who still held titles or lands in other kingdoms. So the Archduke hat simply disowned his own sister and deported her to Kaer Morhen, like some piece of cattle.

Why exactly the bastard thought that that would appease the White Wolf, Eskel had no idea.

"And what use would that be, my lady?" he asked, clinging to politeness like Jaskier had taught him to not reveal his anger.

This time, the woman flinched, a whole body flinch that made Eskel's stomach drop. "To serve the White Wolf," the former duchess replied tonelessly after a moment.

"Will you accept the tribute?" the soldier that had spoken before asked. He, like his companions, was sporting a beard of various days, and smelled like he hadn't washed for two weeks.

Eskel looked back at the girl, pity softening his anger and disgust of the soldiers. She was disowned now, had nowhere left to go – certainly not _back_ , where people hadn't wanted her. He wondered if she'd done anything to warrant this treatment or if it was simply cold indifference to her fate on her brother's part and political calculation.

(The latter, the Witcher suspected.)

So Eskel nodded once and signalled towards the iron-barred gate. A moment later, it opened with a creak.

"Thank you, Sir. My lord." The soldier bowed again, mounted his horse as fast as he could, and the soldiers disappeared before the gate had fully opened.

Eskel fought the urge to roll his eyes. Fucking cowards. "Lambert," he called the other Witcher, who had opened the gate. "Take care of the horses and the carriage, will you?"

"A fucking carriage?" Lambert cursed. "Where the fuck should we put a carriage?"

Eskel shrugged, focusing back on the former duchess. Without her entourage, she looked… _lost_ , but somehow relieved, like she was finally able to breathe again. Eskel felt the same. Her fear scent was much less oppressing than the soldier's had been. He could smell her clearer now, now that her scent wasn't eclipsed by the stink of the men. There was fear there, yes, and an undercurrent of pain that she tried to suppress. So he'd been right about her being injured. There definitely was the metallic scent of old blood in the air; not enough, though, to give Eskel a hint on where and how she was hurt.

Had they been attacked on the road? The soldiers hadn't said anything – and probably wouldn't have, even if Eskel asked. Who would admit to delivering 'damaged' goods, as the merchants sometimes put it?

Triss, the Wolf's healer and sorceress, should take a look at her. _And maybe a hot bath will help too_ , he added mentally, seeing her shiver from the cold.

"Come," the Witcher said, and Christina squared her shoulders and followed him through the gate into the keep.

* * *

Kaer Morhen was just as terrifying and magnificent as I'd been told, overlooking the valley and part of the Blue Mountains. The stones were sun-bleached and of a light grey, darker stones indicating where the keep had been repaired. As majestic as it might be, it wasn't beautiful. The stones were bare any decoration, and from here, I couldn't even see if it had a garden.

A cold wind blew through the outer courtyard, and I shivered again, cursing the Redanian gown my maid had packed for me. None of them were suited for harsh winters and draughty castles. My fingers were numb and my muscles stiff from the cold, but I tried to keep up with the Witcher with the scarred face. I'd seen how he'd looked at me with his cat-like amber eyes, judging, assessing. I was used to that. Being looked at had been part of my job at my father's court. His gaze was harder to bear, tough, than that of any Redanian noble; not only because of what had happened to me, but because I didn't know what he was after.

Also, because he terrified me more than any of the Redanian nobles ever could.

I mean, he was a _Witcher_ , a monster-hunter, inhuman and skilled. When I'd been younger and the White Wolf had made a name for himself as Warlord of the North, I'd been morbidly fascinated by Witchers, reading every book in my father's library that I could find. I knew about the sword skills, their heightened sense, their mutations.

It had sounded quite fascinating. But then, it had been nothing but a fantasy, a story in a book, not _reality_.

And the reality was much scarier, I'd learned. The swords on the Witcher's back looked heavy and dangerous; his shoulders were broad, twice as broad as the soldiers had been, and I hadn't even been able to fight _them_ off. How was I supposed to fare against a Witcher?

He was a bit taller than me and moved with the grace of a predator. A wolf. And I was his prey.

The books made Witchers out to be only slightly better than the monsters they hunted, and the rumours about the Warlord were…certainly exaggerated, I hoped. He was painted as a demon, brutal and cruel beyond measure.

(At Oxenfurt, I'd heard songs, though; songs that portrayed him as noble and thoroughly _good_. But that was surely due to a bard's imagination and not reality?)

And I was to be the Warlord's plaything. His mistress. His… anything. Whatever he wanted me to be. His cook, or servant, or just a pleasure kill.

It had hurt that my brother had got rid of me so easily – hurt like a fire poker being rammed down my throat and into my heart. My older sisters were all married and in no positions to protest, my father had lost his right to influence decisions, and my mother was dead, died at my birth. That was one of the reasons my brother hated me, I supposed. But the whole court, the King of Redania, _everyone_ had thought it a splendid idea to send me as… sacrifice, that's what I was.

I had no illusions about my fate.

As the youngest of seven daughters and without prospect of marriage, I was worth _nothing_ , less than nothing.

I might've been married off to some far-away baron that was four times my age, if the White Wolf's Consort hadn't visited my brother's court. That had sparked the idea that the Witcher surely was in need of a mistress. Every court had a mistress, often more than one.

And if the White Wolf didn't want a mistress, I could be anything else; amusement for his men, all just as cruel and violent as he was, for example. At least, that's what my brother had said.

Something twisted in my chest, and again, I felt hands grabbing at me, ripping open the laces of my dress, tugging forcefully at my hair…

"My lady?" the Witcher next to me asked, his voice strangely soft, and I realised that he'd felt my fear, heard it in my heartbeat, smelled it on my skin. I'd have to be careful, more in control. They couldn't know how damaged I really was or my city might pay for it (my brother as well, but I didn't care much about family honour anymore – but the thought of masses of Witchers plundering Rinde…)

"I'm not a lady," I choked out because I wasn't. Not anymore. I threw a quick glance to my companion and found his amber eyes trained on me.

"What do I call you, then?"

"My name," I replied simply, concentrating back on my steps. My whole body hurt from the cold and the exhaustion, and only adrenaline allowed me to move forward.

"I'm Eskel," the Witcher said as if he expected I might actually _call_ him that, and I nodded sharply. I'd known his name. I'd seen him, right hand to the White Wolf.

I'd seen the bard too, Consort to the White Wolf, only briefly over dinner when they'd visited Rinde. He hadn't looked scared or weak or half beaten to death, which gave me hope – only a slight sliver of hope, but hope nonetheless. Maybe I would survive this. Maybe the Warlord wouldn't be as terrible as the rumours made him out to be.

However, my travels here had quickly disabused me of the notion to expect kindness. A quick death would be kindness enough, I supposed, now that I was no longer what the letter of my brother said I was.

Pure.

Undamaged.

Beautiful.

Quickly, I shoved that train of thought aside and focused on the dim hallways lit by torches. We'd hadn't passed anyone so far, and for a moment I wondered if the keep was abandoned, the army of the Wolf already at the gates of Rinde or any other city in Redania. But the faint echo of laughter and clashing steel echoed up from the courtyard outside. I was also sure I'd smelled food while crossing another corridor – or maybe it was just my stomach wishing I'd smell food and also _eat_ it.

Finally, we reached a staircase, and I suppressed a groan. My legs had barely supported me until here, and I wasn't sure how to make it up the stairs. My feet were still raw from the days I'd spent walking behind the carriage as punishment, and me knees felt too weak to bear my weight.

But I couldn't be weak.

Not here, not in a castle full of monsters that preyed on weakness.

The Witcher – Eskel – looked at me, as if sensing my hesitation, and finally offered me a hand. I blinked at it, caught off guard. Was this a kindness? I'd expected him to relish in my pain, in my failure to climb a simple staircase – the soldiers certainly would, and they were supposed to _protect_ me.

Quickly, I pulled myself together and ignored his offer. Maybe, he would've snatched his hand away at the last moment or pushed me down the stairs again. Maybe, he'd wanted to show me how weak I was, but I wouldn't be humiliated, not more in any case than I already had been.

I felt the weight of Eskel's gaze on me as I painfully slowly and with trembling legs fought my way up the staircase. He was nearer now than before, hovering behind my shoulder as if to catch me should I fall, but he didn't try to touch me.

I was thankful for his silence. He didn't let me feel his impatience at my slow progress, didn't laugh, or tease.

After what felt like hours, we reached the top of the stairs that led into another dimly lit hallway, not much different from the one before.

Eskel paused at a wooden door, and after a quick glance at me, knocked.

"Enter," a female voice called, and I felt relief wash through me. So I wasn't the only woman in a castle full of men.

Eskel pushed the door open, and I followed him into a bright room – much brighter than the rest of the keep. It had large windows that let the grey afternoon light in and some sort of magical sconces that emanated a yellow glow. It smelled heavily like herbs, some sweet, some bitter, but also like flowers and lavender and scented soaps.

The smell calmed my racing heart. This smelled familiar, like _home_.

The thought hit me unsuspectingly and I had to clench my jaw to suppress a sob. Eskel's eyes jumped to me, questioning and surprised, as if he'd heard it anyway. Sadness, and grief, and home-sickness raged within me, battled the all-consuming fear that had filled me the whole way up the mountain, but I tried to let none of that show on my face.

"Eskel," a light voice greeted, and my gaze zoomed in on a dark-skinned woman, standing behind a table and chopping something that looked suspiciously like a brain. "And who's this?"

My eyes snapped up to meet her, and the manners drilled into me since childhood suddenly appeared. I curtsied as best as I could with trembling legs, introducing myself, "Christina, my lady."

The woman – a sorceress? She certainly was as beautiful as the Court-Sourceress of King Vizimir – lifted one elegant eyebrow and looked back at Eskel.

The Witched cleared his throat. "The – err – former duchess was brought as tribute from the Archduke of Rinde. I hoped you would show her the baths and…" he shifted a little, "tend to her injuries before I present her to the Wolf."

I couldn't contain the flinch this time, my body jerking away from him, from his piercing gaze that seemed to see everything. How had he known I was hurt? I'd been careful not to show it in my movements.

The Witcher pretended not to notice my reaction, his eyes trained on the dark-skinned woman. But I knew now that I was utterly screwed. There was nothing I could hide from him, and soon, he would also find out what had happened on the road, he would realise how damaged, and useless, and tainted I was; and he would tell the White Wolf. Then, they would kill me, or _worse_ …

Send me back.

Funny that I thought of dying here as the lesser of two evils, my panic-induced mind remarked idly.

"Christina?" the woman's voice snapped me back to the present, and I tried very hard to focus on her face, which was way closer than it should be, by the way. Wasn't she standing halfway across the room a minute ago? "Breathe," she said firmly, but that didn't make sense. I _was_ breathing, and still, I felt like I was drowning. I couldn't push any air in my lungs.

"I won't hurt you," she added.

_Yeah, sure_ , my mind deadpanned. But, in truth, I hadn't been scared of her… well, much less scared than I was of the Witcher next to her.

_Focus_ , I screamed at myself. _Don't show weakness, you idiot._

So instead, I focused on the cold that seeped through my thin soles, on the hard stone underneath, on the smell of lavender and smoke anchoring me in the present. After a moment, my breathing evened, still too fast, but no longer in the middle of a panic attack.

"Sit," the woman said and suddenly pushed my down on a chair that hadn't been there before. "She's freezing. Where is her stuff?"

He question wasn't directed at me, so I didn't answer, just focused on the little bit of warmth that bled from her hand into my shoulder.

"In the carriage, I guess," Eskel replied. "I'll fetch someone to bring it to her room."

_My room?_ I echoed silently. I hadn't expected a room. Or maybe he meant a cell?

I heard him leave, the door falling shut behind him.

"I'm Triss," the sorceress said, "How about a nice, warm bath?"

* * *

Eskel looked up from the letter he'd been reading and re-reading for the past hour – a letter from the Archduke of Rinde – when Triss entered.

The sorceress looked tired, physically and emotionally, and dark shadows hung behind her eyes. "She's sleeping," she said as greeting, straight to the point as always, and sat down in the chair in front of Eskel's desk.

The Witcher nodded, silent. The edge of the parchment crumbled between his fingers, and he quickly smoothed it out again, forcing his finger to relax. He had half the mind to ride to Rinde himself and do something very unfortunate to the Archduke. The letter made it abundantly clear what Christina was here for.

The Archduke obviously thought the White Wolf was a monster devouring maidens, when _he_ was the real monster in this story. But monsters never recognised themselves as such.

The former duchess was to be the sacrificial lamb on the Wolf's altar.

That certainly explained why she was scared half to death.

"What does it say?" asked Triss, nodding towards the letter.

"Nothing good," Eskel replied a little gruffly, thinking about burning the damn thing. The Archduke's behaviour, his words insulted the White Wolf gravely. His carelessness, his complete apathy to his sister's fate made Eskel even angrier, and he knew his friend and commander would think the same.

Thankfully, he and Jaskier were occupied with another matter, and Eskel hadn't yet had the heart to bring the Archduke's letter and tribute to their attention.

"Hm," the sorceress said, adopting Geralt's favourite phrase. "Do you think the Archduke would mind terribly if his soldiers disappear on their way back?"

Eskel looked up. Her murderous expression belied her nonchalant tone, and he could smell her anger now, like a thundercloud, electric and sulphurous.

"What'd they do?" he asked, knowing it must be a damn good reason for her to be so violent.

Triss' dark eyes flashed. "Hurt her," she replied simply, her fingers curling to fists in her lap. "I will not betray her trust in telling you how," she added quickly when Eskel opened his mouth. "She actually didn't tell me anything. But I'm a healer and I have eyes in my head."

Eskel breathed in deeply through his nose, but it did nothing to relax his iron-stiff muscles. Her words had triggered something dark, something protective inside him, the side that killed the monsters not for coin but because he _wanted_ to.

"Fuck," he finally said.

He'd have to tell Geralt now. Not because he'd stop him from punishing the men – he'd probably want to take part in that. Nobody would miss the soldiers. They could've just as easily fallen into a ravine or been eaten by a Kikimora, for all Eskel cared. The question was – did they need to react to the insult? Had they replaced one monster with another?

The girl hadn't deserved to be treated like that, like merchandise, de-humanised, humiliated, brutalised.

Guilt pooled in his gut when he thought of the way she'd limped up the stairs, teeth clenched; she hadn't trusted him. And why would she? He was indirectly to blame for her demise. They could've handled the Archduke differently. They could've made sure nobody would _ever_ send a person as tribute.

"What do we do with her? Kaer Morhen is no place for a delicate noble daughter."

Triss sighed. "I haven't talked to her much. She has no magical abilities, but… there must be something. Jaskier might be better equipped to handle that. He knows the Redanian court."

Eskel nodded. "I will talk to him."

"For now, she needs to rest and regain her strength," the sorceress added.

"You want her to stay?" Incredulity made Eskel's voice slightly higher than normal.

"Do you not think it heartless to send her away?"

Eskel grunted noncommittally. He did, but he didn't want to admit it. The duchess feared this place, feared the people who lived inside. Surely a nice village somewhere would be better suited…?

"It's almost winter, Eskel. She's lived her whole life at court, warm and protected. We can't cast her out," Triss said heatedly. There was a fierceness in her gaze, a protectiveness – Triss _liked_ the girl. "She can help me with the herb garden and the salves."

"Fine," Eskel said quickly. He didn't want to cast the girl out either, but… he didn't like the combination of guilt and anger that swirled in his gut when he thought of her. "She has to swear loyalty at some point, but…" He shrugged.

"I don't see why she wouldn't," Triss replied. "When she sees we're not the monsters she thought we'd be. She handled that quite well actually, considering…" She nodded towards the letter, as if she knew exactly what it said.

_Spine of steel_ , Eskel thought, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She hadn't been defeated by her fear or her pain, and Witchers admired strength and courage.

"I'll tell Geralt now, and then he can announce the presence of our guest at supper. I'm sure most of the others already noticed the new smell."

* * *

_It was dark in the carriage and cold. I was draped in two of my cloaks, but they helped little against the icy wind that found little gaps in the wood of the carriage and howled through the trees._

_I could hear the men laughing outside, joking and insulting each other. They were my brother's men, and I didn't know them. We've been on the road a little over a week, and they were watching me more closely after my first attempt to run away. I felt their eyes on me all the time, in every inn we stopped, every meal we shared. They'd been rough but sort of civil so far, but we'd reached the White Wolf's territory now and their behaviour had changed for the worse._

_My brother's words to treat me with the respect I was owed were completely forgotten, and the warning not to harm the White Wolf's property was the only thing protecting me now, I knew. They were just as scared of the Warlord as I was, and they wouldn't even have to face him. I wasn't sure how long that fear would protect me from their hands._

_Noble soldiers, my brother had called them. Trustworthy._

Trustworthy, my ass _, I thought bitterly. I had no title anymore, was due no respect. I was cattle, and they treated me as such._

_My fingers curled around the blunt knife I'd stolen from the last inn, and tried to find comfort in the cold metal. It was more symbolic than anything. I wasn't a Witcher, after all._

_Suddenly, the door to the carriage was ripped open and the cold smoky air hit me like a slap._

_"_ _Duchess," one soldier drawled, "fancy a walk?"_

_"_ _No, thank you. I'd much rather sleep," I answered quietly, yawning._

_Without warning, he grabbed my ankle and pulled me forward. The knife fell from my cold fingers in surprise, and before I even knew what was happening, I was outside on the floor. My body hurt from the fall and dark sport danced in front of my eyes._

_One soldier – Martin? Marten? Something like that – was standing over me, smiling down in a way that made my skin crawl. Orange firelight reflected in his eyes and painted the clearing in dancing shadows._

_Hastily, I scrambled to my feet, one hand on the side of the carriage. "How dare you?" I asked with all the authority I could muster._

_"_ _Don't be cross, duchess," Marten laughed, crowding me against the carriage. I glanced behind him and saw that three of the others were sitting around the fire, watching curiously, like one watched a circus show or a theatre performance; the fourth was nowhere in sight. "But you're no duchess anymore, are you? Just a whore being sold to the White Wolf."_

_His fingers were on the side of my neck and I tried to draw away, but his other hand leaned against the carriage in a way that made it impossible for me to move._

_"_ _Don't touch me," I hissed with all the strength I could muster._

_"_ _Do you think he'll howl when he takes you?" Marten asked and the other men laughed. "Maybe we should show you how a_ real _man feels like, hm, sweetheart?"_

_More laughter, but I couldn't quite hear them over the drumming of my heart. My mouth was dry and my legs weak from fear. "You wouldn't dare," I rasped._

_Instantly, I knew it'd been the wrong thing to say. Rage darkened Marten's expression, and his dirty fingers grabbed a fistful of my hair. "Arrogant bitch." He slammed my head against the carriage, leaving me totally disoriented. I could feels his fingers pushing up my dress, his breath in my face, smelling of garlic and meat, his stone-hard, warm body pressing against mine, his foot shoving my legs apart –_

I woke with a scream in my throat and terror in my heart. My panic was so great that I almost didn't remember how to breathe. With unseeing eyes, I stared into the all-engulfing darkness, trying to remember where I was.

I could still feel rough hands around my throat, under my dress, ripping and tearing…

Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the half-light of dying embers and moonlight slanting through the drapes. The first thing I noticed was that I was alone; my gaze jumped through the room, never really stopping on anything, painfully aware of every movement. But all was quiet and still.

The second thing I noticed was the absence of pain. My head hurt no longer – or had it only hurt in my dream? – my muscles didn't tremble. All the little aches in my body were gone, aches I'd barely noticed until I couldn't feel them anymore. The sharp pain when breathing, the sore fragility of knees, the rope burns on my wrist, the blisters on my feet…

Triss' potions had really done their job.

Finally, I realised that it was cold in the room – _my_ room. The fire had died down, and even in two nightgowns and buried beneath the fur that Triss had procured for me, I was freezing. The room was simple: a bed, a chest with blankets and spare linen, a cupboard for my stuff, a desk and a chair. Less than I was used to – but more than I'd hoped for.

Suddenly, a knock resounded through the room and I stared at the door. Had I woken anybody up with my nightmare?

Or was the White Wolf coming to claim me in the night?

"Christina?"

It was Eskel's voice, and somehow that calmed me enough to say, "Yes?"

The door slightly opened, allowing a narrow strip of light to fall into the room. I could see his shadow under the door, waiting. "Are you all right? May we come in?"

_We?_

"Christina?" asked a different voice, and the door was pushed open, revealing Eskel in a dark, unbuttoned tunic and trousers, his wolf medallion reflecting the light, and a young man next to him in a similar state of undress. Both of them were barefoot, as if they'd just jumped out of bed. But I could see the sword in Eskel's hand and tensed.

Surely, if he wanted to murder me he'd have done so before? Why wait until the middle of the night?

"She's alone," Eskel growled. "Everyone to bed."

I heard quiet, murmuring voices and shuffling footsteps and wondered who else was standing outside my door. Then I remembered the facts from the books I'd read – Witcher hearing, as sharp as a bat's.

"May we come in?" asked the second man gently. He looked young, unscarred, human. His blue eyes were soft, and I remembered where I'd seen them before – at my brother's court. This was the White Wolf's Consort.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Instantly, both of them entered, closing the door behind them. My fingers felt around for some kind of weapon but finding only fur. Not that it would be much use against a Witcher.

"Eskel, would you take care of the fire?" the bard asked, and a moment later a bright, hot fire danced in the hearth.

Immediately, my shaking subsided a little, and I sat up straighter. Should I curtsy to the Wolf's Consort in my nightgown? That seemed ridiculous. But then, it was equally ridiculous to have two men that were not my kin in my bedroom at night.

"Consort," I said respectfully and bowed my head instead. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Nah, I wasn't sleeping anyway," he replied flippantly, dragging the chair over to my bed and sitting down on it. Meanwhile Eskel had returned to the door, his sword leaning against the wall as if that would make him less threatening. Without the armour, I could see more scars on his skin, less horrific than the one that transfigured his face, but scars [CG1] nonetheless. Part of me was curious, fascinated even, while the other part thought how dangerous they made him – no human could've received these wounds and _lived_.

The Witcher was watching me as well, I realised, quickly averting my gaze back to the less threatening figure. Less threatening but not less dangerous. The Wolf's Consort could have my head for waking him up in the middle of the night, and nobody would stop him.

"I'm Jaskier," the Consort added when I remained silent. "I feel like we've met. Have we met? At the Archduke's court maybe? I don't remember, I was too busy scaring the other nobles."

Eskel made a chuckling sound, as if the idea of Jaskier scaring anybody was preposterous.

"Okay, Aubry and Lambert had that covered. Still, we met, didn't we?"

I nodded slowly. "We danced even."

"Oh." A delighted, mischievous grin highlighted his face, as if we'd shared a secret. "Did I step on your toes?"

I knew his question was meant to lighten the mood, and it did. It pushed away the last remnants of the nightmare, but it also reminded me of a place that was no longer my home.

"A lady would never tell," I replied as lightly as I could, although I remembered the dance. Jaskier had been graceful, taught to dance since he was twelve, like all noble children were.

Jaskier's face fell. "About that…"

Instantly, something painful wedged itself in my throat, and I felt the panic that had only just melted away by the warmth of the room and Jaskier's easy manner come back with full force. Eskel at the door stiffened, making half a step towards me but thinking better of it.

"No, no, no, darling. Nobody here will harm you. Nobody," the Wolf's Consort said hastily, easily guessing in which direction my thoughts had wandered. "You're under the White Wolf's protection now, under _my_ protection."

I tried to control my breathing, to soak up Jaskier's calm, but it wasn't easy. Just because none of the other Witchers would harm me, it didn't mean the White Wolf wouldn't.

"Please," Jaskier said gently, reaching for my hand but not quite touching it. "You're safe now. We won't send you away, or kill you, or torture you, or rape you…"

He must've seen me flinch because he hesitated for a split second before continuing, but I knew I'd given myself away. "Witchers protect people. No matter what ridiculous rumours you've heard."

I nodded, once, to acknowledge his words but not quite believing him yet. "A friend of humanity," I whispered the line of the song the bard had composed when still travelling with the Witcher.

The smile that spread across Jaskier's face was almost blinding. "Exactly. You see, no need to worry. Please calm down," he repeated, "Your fear puts all the Witchers on edge."

My eyes widened as his words sunk in. They could all feel my fear, probably hear my heartbeat, and that scared me even more. A Witcher on edge was a not a Witcher I wanted to meet.

"Jaskier," Eskel said quietly.

"Sorry, sorry, Christina," the bard hastened to say, realising his mistake. "I know you've been through a lot and it will take a while to trust as, but I hope you will." He smiled brightly, a little too brightly to be real, but I appreciated the gesture.

Trust them. I turned that thought over in my mind. Could I ever see _man_ instead of _predator_ in the way Eskel walked? Would his raw strength ever stop intimidating me? Would I ever find kindness in these cat-like eyes? Would my instincts at one point stop telling me to run every time he moved?

Moreover, would I ever be able to accept touch again? Would the nightmares stop? Could I find a life, a purpose again?

_Yes_ , Jaskier's eyes said. _I will help you._

"I will try," I said, my voice raw and rough like broken stones. I didn't want to trust the promises yet that his blue eyes held. But so far neither Eskel nor Jaskier nor Triss had given me any reason to fear them, if I was being honest.

Jaskier's smile turned real, and I couldn't help but relaxing, just a little.

"I know you will, darling," he said, and I leaned back against the headboard. Now that the fear slowly ebbed away, the exhaustion crawled back into my bones. I hadn't been able to sleep more than a few hours every other night since the evening the soldiers had raped me, always too afraid they would try it again – and they _had_.

"I know you're tired," Jaskier said, "but there are a few things I'd like to talk to you about."

I nodded silently, but not wanting to seem rude, I added, "Yes. What is it, my lord?"

"Not 'my lord'," he corrected at once. "Nobody here's a lord. Just Jaskier, okay?"

I nodded again.

"Good. So…" He exchanged a glance with Eskel. "What are you good at?"

My eyes quickly wandered between them, trying to guess what he was after. "I…" I began, unsure, "can dance and sing very badly compared to you. I forced Sebastian, my other brother, to show me how to shoot an arrow because father wouldn't allow me to touch a sword." I could see the surprise on Eskel's face, but only because I'd watched out for it. It wasn't something anybody outside my family knew, and it certainly wasn't _seemly_ for a young duchess. "I forced my father to allow me to study in Oxenfurt, but I don't have a formal degree because noble ladies are not supposed to be _too_ intelligent. Languages and Literature were among my favourite subjects. I'm fluent in three languages, and somewhat decent in two more. My Elder is also a little rusty, I suppose."

"You studied the seven liberal arts?" Jaskier asked, surprised.

"I studied everything, to be honest. I wasn't allowed a degree, so… I just took as many classes for as long as I could. I know some basic herbology, I had one anatomy class, an introduction into mind healing…" I paused, thinking. "Nothing else at the Faculty of Medicine. I did three courses in arithmetics just to prove to my brother that men weren't better in math than women, some more classes in the Faculty of Trade, but I don't remember _that_ much."

Suddenly, I realised that I'd been talking too much, revealing too many things. My brother would slap me if he knew I wasn't behaving like a noble woman should. So I added somewhat lamely, "Of course, I can embroider and sew and knit. Knitting isn't so bad actually."

Hastily, I threw my hand over my mouth. The exhaustion must've turned my brain off.

But then, Eskel made that sound again, the almost chuckle, and it wasn't patronising or mocking.

"Not so bad, hm?" Jaskier teased with a grin, but turning serious when he saw that I wasn't reciprocating the grin. "Languages, medicine, math, and trade, impressing. If you wanted to learn more about medicine, you could shadow Triss, help her with the potions and salves. Or…you could help me and Yennefer with Princess Cirilla, teaching her. Or…" He furrowed his brow, not noticing how my mind had started racing.

Princess _Cirilla_? The lion cub of Cintra? The girl everyone had thought died in the Nilfgaardian invasion? She was _here_?

"Or you could help us with the administration, overseeing the villages, our stock, the coin we have, the coin we need, the tributes we ge –"

I'd tried to hold back the flinch this time, but Jaskier noticed anyway.

"Normally, it's just grain or vegetables, sometimes spices and cloth. Never people. _Never_. This was so out of line, it's not even in the same reality anymore. Geralt was _so_ mad… not at you, darling, of course not. Why would he be mad at you? At your asshole of a brother," he said without taking a breath.

"Please don't hurt them," I interrupted him, but hating myself for it instantly. Ferdinant certainly had it coming. My sisters, though, and the people of Rinde…

"We won't… yet," Jaskier said, exchanging another glance with the Witcher at the door, who'd become slightly more relaxed as the conversation had continued. "But sending you… it will have consequences, and none of them pretty. But winter is on our doorstep, so the Archduke can count himself lucky. I'll send him a scathing letter, though." For a moment, the bard looked so angry that it rivalled the Witcher's glowering. "In spring, you can help us decide."

"I?" I couldn't stop myself asking, or rather squeaking, if I was being honest.

"You do realise what your brother did was monstrous," Eskel said his first sentence longer than one word in this conversation.

I turned my head to look at him. He leaned against the door, aiming for casualness, but nothing about a half-dressed, muscular, armed Witcher in my room could ever be casual. I could see his anger, well hidden, but certainly there. I'd become quite good at reading men in the last half year, angry men especially.

"Yes," I reply evenly, even though it surprised me the Witcher would see it that way.

_Protector of the people, friend of humanity_ , I reminded myself. The White Wolf had only acted because my father had decreed discriminating, unfair laws.

And suddenly, something in my mind clicked. The Witchers, the White Wolf, Jaskier, they were all angry at my _brother_ for sending me, for treating them the monsters rumours said they were. My presence here was an insult to the White Wolf, and nobody insulted a king and lived.

"What's wrong?" Eskel asked instantly, picking up on my faster heart rate, on the tremble in my fingers.

"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I had no choice but to come. I tried to flee, but…" Hastily, I cut myself off. "I'm sorry," I tried again, reaching for Jaskier's hand as if physical contact could sway him not to kill me, not to punish me for my family's transgressions.

Because that was how it worked.

Family pays for family. Blood erases the shame. _My_ blood, in this case.

"Nobody here blames you," Jaskier said quickly, squeezing my fingers. He understood. Of course, he understood. He'd lived at court before he'd become a bard, the White Wolf's bard. "Wouldn't it be terribly ironic to hurt you for your brother's sins and do exactly what he expects us to do?"

From the corner of my eyes, I could see Eskel wince, and suddenly, _I_ felt like a monster. These men had been nothing but kind to me, even though I expected the opposite, and how did I repay them? – I treated them as if they were really the monsters my brother thought them to be: dishonest, false, without honour.

But I could see now that they weren't. Jaskier was even somewhat normal. And Triss had been… nice. Powerful, but nice.

"Gods, I'm sorry," I apologised again, my voice thick with tears. I fought them, but the last month had been a literal nightmare, I was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally, and I just couldn't hold it together anymore.

Great, deep sobs wreaked havoc in my chest, and I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands. Tears spilled over, dripping onto the furs.

"Darling…" Jaskier whispered softy, and I felt him shift, but I didn't care anymore. Suddenly, there was a warm weight beside me on the bed, and his arms were around my shoulder, but none of it was threatening or scary. No, it was so comforting that it made me cry even harder. Nobody had touched me with gentleness since father had been forced to abdicate, nobody had touched me without wanting anything, without taking, without agenda.

So I turned my head and buried my face in Jaskier's shoulder, forgetting that he was the White Wolf's Consort for a moment, forgetting I was in Kaer Morhen and every Witcher could hear me.

I just let the grief take over and drown me.

* * *

Eskel fled Christina's room with long steps. The salty smell of her tears had sucker-punched him, her grief too overwhelming for him to bear at the moment. Jaskier had motioned for him to go when he'd realised, and Eskel had taken the chance.

He could still hear her sobs one floor and many doors away, and they pierced him like tiny blades. He felt ashamed for fleeing from her, from the consequences of his actions in Rinde, for abandoning her to her tears, but he just couldn't take it.

Her reactions, her words… the pain, and fear, and betrayal, and grief, and shame in her smell… it was all too much, too many emotions for one person to feel.

He paused in front of Geralt's room, well, the room Geralt shared with Jaskier and on many occasions with Eskel as well.

"Eskel?" Geralt asked softly, having heard him approach.

The Witcher took a deep breath and opened the door. The familiar smell of the room was balm for his senses, and he quickly stepped inside.

"What happened?" Geralt asked, as if he couldn't have listened to the entire conversation if he'd wanted to. But of course, Geralt wouldn't, too fucking noble for that. However, Christina's sobs were actually quite muffled, only a faint echo Eskel wouldn't hear if he didn't know it was there.

"I want to kill her brother and every single one of these soldiers that put a hand on her," Eskel growled, technically not replying to what Geralt had asked. His fists were shaking with rage, and he quickly put the sword back in its sheath before he could get any funny ideas.

"Hm," Geralt agreed, his rage much more dampened, not having met the former duchess yet. But only the knowledge that pain had been caused to her in his name hurt the Witcher deeply. He was sitting on his bed, cross-legged as if meditating, but Eskel was sure he hadn't quite managed that. Faint lines of worry lay around his eyes.

"Jaskier is fine," he said, and the lines eased a little.

"Christina?"

"Well…" Eskel sat down on the bed beside him, letting his shoulders brush against Geralt's. "Fine is not the word I'd use." He sighed. "She's miserable and traumatised. _Fuck_. I hated how scared she was, and then she finally lightened up talking about her studies – she's as much as scholar as our bard – but then Jaskier mentioned _tributes_ of all things… she begged us not to hurt the people that had sent her here, her so-called family." Eskel's tone turned bitter and Geralt shifted slightly against him. His family. He, and Jaskier, and Ciri, and Yen, and Triss, and Lambert… people who'd never betray him like that, hurt him like that. "And then I said her brother was a monster – which he fucking is, godsdamnit – and she… panicked. Again."

"Hm?" Geralt asked.

"I didn't get it either. But Jaskier did. She thought… well…" Eskel looked down at his hands who were more accustomed to holding swords and weapons, to hands that killed. "She thought we'd punish her for her brother's actions."

"What?" Geralt barked.

"I know, right?" Eskel sighed again, slumping against the other Witcher. In that second, he'd felt every bit the monster, the murderer, inhuman. "She realised, though, I think. She was so ashamed… and then she apologised over and over and started crying."

Geralt silently put a hand around his shoulder, showering him with warmth and calm and the sweet honey smell of love. "Why do you feel guilty?" he asked after a moment.

Of course, he noticed.

So Eskel told the truth. "We set it in motion, didn't we? The scandal. Her brother becoming Archduke. Accepting tributes…"

"That's not true," the other Witcher contradicted. "The new Archduke made his own decisions. He could've sent a wagon with food."

Eskel dropped his head. "I know. I still feel like a Manticore kicked me in the chest every time I look at her."

"Hm."

* * *

I woke to a gentle tap on the door and sluggishly sat up. My cheeks were warm from sleep and crying, my tongue felt swollen and dry, and my head hurt again. I couldn't really remember what had happened last night…

I remembered crying my eyes out on Jaskier's shoulder – _the_ _damn Consort's shoulder, you idiot?_ – and then I woke up.

I knocked again, a bit louder this time, and I stumbled out of bed and towards the door. I realised that it was light outside, properly light. It must be way past sunrise. Had I overslept?

Behind the door, Triss waited, a tray in hand. "You missed breakfast."

I stepped back, letting her enter, and tried to smile. "Thank you, Triss."

She put the tray on my desk, then sat down on my bed, waiting. I wished I could wash my face. It must be obvious that I'd cried, but my dignity was ruined anyway, wasn't it? So I sat down as well, emptying the glass of water and refilling it again. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't been able to eat much food after the bath yesterday, and the fresh bread smelled delicious.

I glanced at Triss, but she just sat there, watching me. She didn't ask me things in return for the food, and she also didn't look like she'd magic it away the second I dared to touch it.

I felt slightly guilty when I took a bite from the bread. This food was not meant for me, I wasn't even supposed to be here. But hunger overtook the rest of the meal, and I finished everything on the tray way too quickly.

"There's dinner soon," Triss informed me with a small smile. Why was everyone so damn perceptive around here? "How are your ribs? Any lingering pain?" she asked quickly before I could say anything.

"No. I feel fine, better than for weeks," I admitted. "Thank you so very much."

"Of course," the sorceress nodded. "I thought I could help you with your wardrobe before I show you the keep. Then, before dinner, I can introduce you to the Wolf and his counsel. At dinner, you'll meet the rest."

I took a sip of water, somewhat overwhelmed by her words. "I'd be very glad for that, if it's not too much trouble." I was aware that the sorceress probably had things to do, but she didn't look resentful.

"No trouble at all."

Together, we unpacked my things, and I realised how bright my clothes were compared to the dark colours Eskel and Triss wore. It took us a while to combine gowns, thinner see-through pieces over sturdier ones, shawls, stockings, and cloaks to give me at least a few winter-proof outfits. They were still too cold for outside, but she promised to find me a fur-lined cloak that would complete my outfit and some thick boots that could protect my feet against the snow.

Triss helped me change – these gowns were made with lady's maids in mind – and patiently waited until I'd brushed and braided my hair in an elven warrior style. I felt like a new human being, braver, more myself and not the trembling, ruined thing the soldiers had dragged over the continent.

Then, I took a deep breath and braved the world outside my door.


	2. A Stranger in a Strange Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: The duchess meets more Witchers and the famous White Wolf. Eskel wants to do something nice for her, and it sort of... backfires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the nice comments, kudos and bookmarks!

Triss gave me an encouraging smile before she opened the door to the council hall where the White Wolf and the members of the Council – Eskel, Jaskier, Vesemir, and Yennefer – were waiting for me.

My palms were sweaty and my heartbeat too fast, but it was due to nervousness not outright fear. I'd seen nothing in the castle so far that would warrant fear; no dungeons, no torture devices, no screams echoing through the corridors. The Witchers we'd passed had all been armed, but that was normal, I guessed. They'd been polite, nodding a greeting even. Politer than my brother's soldiers.

I followed the sorceress inside. Large windows, similar to the ones in Triss' room, lit the chamber, consisting of a large table, some chairs, a map on the wall, and a bookshelf with scrolls and stacks of parchment. The people around the table appeared as dark shadows, backlit brightly by the windows. My eyes first found Eskel, closest to the door, his amber eyes familiar but cautious. His scar was in the shadows, his head turned just so, and I wondered if he tried to shield me from it.

Beside him, a tall, dark-haired woman with violet eyes leaned against the chair, impossibly beautiful, her black dress falling in long lines to the ground. Yennefer of Vengerberg. I'd read about her in one of my books, about the Battle of Sodden; in real life she was even more beautiful and impressive than in the stories, and I felt terribly small and insignificant next to her. The faintest of smiles danced across her lips as she watched me, and even though I knew that she was just as dangerous as the White Wolf, I couldn't bring myself to fear her. Maybe, it was because she was a woman. Maybe because I underestimated her. Maybe because I fell for her beauty. Maybe because she _smiled_.

I didn't know.

On the other side of the table stood an older, grey-haired Witcher, eyes yellow and cat-slitted like Eskel's, shoulders just as broad. His wolf medallion lay proudly on his armoured chest, the handle of a sword peaking from behind his back.

_Predator_ , my mind screamed.

_Vesemir_ , I screamed back. For me, the name made him weirdly human. Kikimoras, bruxas, and griffins had no names. But Witchers did.

He watched me, calculating and wary, but not hostile. So I calmed my racing heart and used Yennefer's tactic that had completely disarmed me. I smiled.

Vesemir's eyebrow twitched, but he didn't otherwise react.

Finally, I turned my gaze to the truly terrifying man in the room. The White Wolf.

He was sitting on a chair behind a table, making him appear smaller than me, less imposing – with intention, I supposed. His hair was like threads of moonlight, silvery white; eyes slitted and golden; cheekbones like chiselled out of marble. He'd be handsome if his features weren't so hard, all rough edges and marble. His gaze was so intense I felt he could see inside my soul, see the darkness there, the corruption, the brokenness, the lostness.

But I steeled myself and met his gaze.

The White Wolf could probably kill me with one hand; he was dangerous, and scary, and…

he had a bard sitting on his lap.

It did destroy the picture of the Big Bad Wolf a little, and I understood that it was just as intentional as my smile had been.

It'd taken me a moment to notice Jaskier, smiling happily, a hand on the White Wolf's shoulder. Right. He was the Consort, after all. But something about his contentment, the relaxed waves of his shoulders… he truly didn't fear the White Wolf.

Maybe I didn't need to either?

"May I present, Christina," Triss announced, forgoing my former titles and I was thankful for that. Saying it always felt like a stab through the heart, a reminder of what I'd lost.

I curtsied deeply, and when I looked up, Jaskier was smiling even brighter. He slid from the White Wolf's lap and walked around the table.

"You look better," he said quietly, giving the impression that not everybody here could hear his words perfectly well; then, louder, "Well, Christina, meet the great White Wolf, the Warlord of the North, Geralt of Rivia."

I could hear the teasing note in his voice but curtsied again, just to be on the safe side.

"Welcome," the White Wolf rumbled, inclining his head, treating me as if I was a _guest_ and not a tribute.

"We're sorry for the circumstances that brought you here," Yennefer added, suddenly looking angry. Her eyes were glowing; I could almost taste the magic radiating off her, and still, I wasn't scared.

I was reasonably sure that they weren't angry at me, that they wouldn't make me pay for my brother's mistakes, and I was just about to apologise for everything, for the misunderstanding, for my nightmare, for being here, for fucking existing, when Jaskier interrupted.

"Good. Formal part's over. That was fun. We should do it more often." He glanced at the White Wolf, who glowered at him. For a second, I was afraid for him; the heat of the White Wolf's gaze was almost unbearable and it wasn't even directed at me. "Or maybe not," the bard shrugged. "I think I can smell dinner. Come on, darling."

He tugged at the Warlords hand, and I couldn't quite believe my eyes when the Witcher actually stood up and followed the bard across the chamber towards the door. Standing, I could see that he was as tall as Jaskier – maybe a head taller than me – and clad in dark armour. He seemed a lot taller, though, his presence filling the room. I quickly stepped out of the way as they'd passed, the smell of leather and musk following them.

"Come," Triss said, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the door as well.

I still couldn't quite believe I'd managed to not only survive the encounter with the White Wolf, but without any violence whatsoever. It made me feel a little weak in the knees, but I tried not to let it show when I followed the dark-skinned sorceress into the throne hall for dinner.

* * *

"Spine of fucking _steel_ ," Eskel whispered when the two women had left, but the expressions on Yen's and Vesemir's face told him that they'd heard.

* * *

There seemed to be no table for guests, or tributes, or prisoners, because Triss pushed me down on a chair next to her at the White Wolf's table. I had my back to the wall and could watch the rest of the hall, remembering almost forgotten knowledge about different schools of Witchers.

All tables except ours ran over the length of the mess hall. Our table sat on a little dais at a right angle to the rest of the tables, as it was fit for a king.

The White Wolf presided in the middle, facing the whole room, Jaskier and Eskel at his right hand side, a blonde girl and Yennefer at his left. This must be Princess Cirilla. In front of the princess, there sat another woman, about as old as I – Cirilla's lady-in-waiting? Her tutor? In front of the Warlord sat Vesemir, his salt-and-pepper hair easily recognisable. I also recognised the olive-skinned Witcher – Lambert – a few seats further down.

Triss had placed me at the edge of the long table to the Wolf's left; there was just one more Witcher to my left side, sitting diagonally from me at the head of the table.

"I'm Christina," I said, turning to him. (Because I thought manners might be a good idea, even here in this extremely informal court.) His hair was dark and short-cropped, and he looked a little younger than Geralt and Eskel.

"Leo," he replied with a smile, offering his hand.

I shook it without hesitation. Across from me sat a Witcher named Gwen and next to him the Witchers Tjold and Berengar, both cautious, reserved, but smiling.

I was so hungry I concentrated on the food and let the conversation wash over me like a wave. It was not at all like my father's or brother's or King Vizimir's court, louder, more relaxed. People were laughing and joking, just dropping in for a quick bite and leaving again. I saw a few more women, some armed, some not, some sitting at the Witchers' tables, some at the tables furthest away from ours that seemed to be for servants – or at least non-warriors. Maybe I should sit there next time?

The food made me sleepy again, my muscles relaxed, and I didn't even mind the curious stares I received. I tried to fight the tiredness, the exhaustion that one night of sleep couldn't completely cure, but it was a losing battle.

"Ciri would like to meet you, Christina," Triss suddenly interrupted my sleepy haze, and I realised that the dinner was almost finished; most Witchers had already left. My eyes flew to the middle of the table, finding the blue eyes of the young girl. "But I can see you're tired. How about you take a nap and Ciri can show you the gardens later?"

"No, I'm fine," I lied. "I'd be honoured to meet the princess. I don't need to sleep. I can be useful."

I could feel Eskel's eyes on me as if he'd heard my words, heard the lie, but I evaded his eyes. Thankfully, I was somewhat sheltered by Triss' body and the seating plan. I didn't want to be even more of a burden than I already was, and meeting Cirilla really was an honour. I didn't want to insult her, too.

"Nonsense," Triss said. "I'm you're healer, and I say you'll rest. Ciri can wake you after her lessons." He tone tolerated no dissent, so I nodded.

I really was tired, but I was also afraid to sleep, afraid of the nightmares.

"Is there a potion for… a better sleep?" I asked quietly. The Witchers around me had already left, only Eskel, Jaskier, Cirilla, Yennefer and the other lady remained, and I hoped they were too far away to hear.

"I don't have anything prepared that's suited for humans, I'm afraid," Triss replied, "But I'll see about that. Some magic will do for now."

* * *

Eskel watched the duchess and the sorceress leave together. Even though Christina was tired and relatively relaxed now, misery still clung to her like an oversized dress, hiding everything that lay beneath.

He'd heard Lambert groan when Christina and Triss had arrived, and he couldn't even blame him. This was their home, their sanctuary. It shouldn't smell like fear, or pain, or grief. But he also couldn't blame the girl; this hadn't been her choice, and she was trying so damn hard.

He'd heard her words about wanting to be useful, and he didn't like them. True, they hadn't actually discussed her status here, but, for Eskel, she was a _guest_ not a slave. Neither he nor the Wolf expected her to work right now. Jaskier wanted to give her a purpose because the winter could be long and dark, and it passed more easily when you were busy and enjoyed yourself. And yes, she _was_ expected to give back to the community, may that be by tales of her time in Oxenfurt, by teaching Ciri, or by helping Triss. Eskel didn't care.

Everybody here took breaks, in winter especially, when you could go nowhere except by portal. The duchess needed the rest. She looked as exhausted as Eskel had felt after slaying the sea monster and almost drowning while doing so.

That had been a terrible hunt. (Jaskier had found it rather exciting; something about the inherent romanticism of sea monsters.)

"Is she all right?" Ciri asked quietly, and Eskel looked to her. She was also watching the two women retreat, worry in her frown. Maybe she remembered the time she had to flee from the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

"She will be, darling," Yen said quickly. "She's an orphan now, a stranger in a strange land. But she'll find her place here if she wants to."

Eskel was thankful for her words that eased Ciri's frown. He didn't like it when the Cub worried.

"I will help her," Ciri said determinedly, exchanging a glance with Helen, her friend, lady-in-waiting, and advisor. The woman and her family had been attacked by a griffin, and only she'd survived, rescued by Witchers. Consequently, she'd decided to join them, and had made fast friends with Ciri.

_A stranger in a strange land_ , Eskel repeated in his head after the Cub, Helen, and the sorceress had left. Did Christina miss her home?

Suddenly, he remembered a moment yesterday in Triss' healing chambers, how Christina's smell had changed to something sad, nostalgic. Home-sickness was not something Eskel was overly familiar with, but he knew the Cub missed her grandmother and Cintra. Sometimes, it had helped her when Jaskier had played a song she knew or when she'd pressed her grandmother's coat close, even though her smell had left…

Was there anything Eskel could give the duchess to help?

* * *

I woke to enthusiastic knocking. Judging from the light, I'd slept almost till dusk – however, dusk came early in winter.

"Christina?" called a bright voice, and I leapt out of bed. Hastily, I smoothed down the dress I'd slept in and opened the door. My limbs still felt heavy from sleep and uncoordinated, and my hair was sticking to my face, but I'd looked worse.

Behind the door, a girl waited. Princess Cirilla.

Instantly, I curtsied as deep as I had for the White Wolf. She was his Child Surprise, his heir, I'd learned from Triss. "Your highness."

The princess giggled and curtsied in return. "Duchess."

I didn't correct her, even though I knew I should. But if she wanted to pretend that I was still of nobility, she could.

"This is Helen," she introduced me to the other woman. She had long black hair and golden skin. Now that I saw her up close, I realised she was a few years older than me.

"My lady," I greeted politely.

"I'm no longer a lady," the woman said bluntly but not unkindly. "So call me Helen, please."

"Helen." I nodded.

"If you're ready, we wanted to show you the gardens," Princess Cirilla smiled.

"There are gardens?"

She gave me a look that told me in no uncertain terms that I was being stupid. "Of course, there are gardens. Where do you think Triss gets her herbs from?"

I shrugged. The sorceress hadn't included anything outside but the inner courtyard in her tour. Hastily, I slipped into my shoes, wrapped a scarf around my neck and head, and took out my thickest coat, a lighter cloak over it. Thus prepared, I followed the girls through the hallways while Cirilla told me about this and that, her papa Geralt – _the White Wolf_ –, things happening in the keep, her classes, places she'd been, and so on.

Having reached the garden, she showed me the apothecary garden and a little greenhouse with vegetables, and pointed to the valley where I could see the dark shapes of a few grazing animals. The valley was already shrouded in twilight, the sun almost hidden behind the massive Blue Mountains.

Kaer Morhen was almost beautiful in the soft evening light, some windows still reflecting the setting sun, glimmering and blinking like stars on the night sky, adorning the castle like diamonds. The stone seemed to glow from within, like a beacon in the darkling world.

Later, we wandered to the stables. It was almost completely dark by now, and the sight of the black carriage hunkered like a monster in the corner of the yard hit me like a bucket of ice cold water. It was barely visible – the torches on the yard had not yet been lightened – but I knew its angles and lines so well by now, its body of a denser darkness than its surroundings. The coach stood awkwardly next to the stable, clearly not belonging there, and I hated it, I hated what had happened there, I hated what it symbolised. But I walked passed it into the stables and let Cirilla show me her horses.

I knew enough about these animals to ride one, but that was about it. Noble ladies had stable hands. (Also, I wasn't sure if I liked horses still, after one had betrayed me so terribly.)

Chattering on, Cirilla told me about her training, and then she asked me, if we could practise languages together. I wondered if Jaskier had put her up to it, but agreed anyway. Cirilla was nice, young, hiding something darker, stronger beneath her chattering that I admired. From her stories, I gathered that she was being trained by Witchers _as_ a Witcher – Witcheress?

Everybody in this castle was dangerous, even the fifteen year old girl. I knew even if I _were_ able to handle a weapon, I still wouldn't be able to defend myself – but it'd at least give me a fighting chance.

"What is it?" Cirilla asked, realising I'd stopped listing.

"I'm sorry, Cirilla," I apologised at once. "I wondered… would you be willing to show me…" I bit my lip. This wasn't proper. If my brother found out about it… he could do absolutely _nothing_. I was the White Wolf's now, whatever that meant. "To fight," I finished.

A brilliant smile danced across Cirilla's lips. "Do you really want to? It'd be amazing to have another sparring partner. Papa and Uncle Eskel always go easy on me."

"I'm afraid you'd have to go easy on _me_ , Princess. I know nothing about fighting."

She laughed musically, and Helen grinned. "Excellent idea. Maybe she'll stop trying to convince _me_ now," she said conspiratorially, "I really much rather watch."

"Boring," Cirilla snorted and linked our arms. The unexpected contact startled me, but she didn't seem to notice my stiffness. "I'll ask Papa about it, and when you're ready, I'll be ready."

"Thank you, Princess," I said.

It felt a little too good to be true. Why would they show me how to fight? I'd never be as strong as a Witcher, not useful in hunting monsters – maybe I should focus on things I already _could_ do.

However, Cirilla's happy smile stopped me from taking it back, and together we walked to supper.

* * *

After supper, I snuck down to bath in the hot springs that were hidden underneath the keep. The baths consisted of one big cave with several pools. Luckily, there were a few pools that had been separated by small walls made out of big chunks of rock; private pools, so to speak. The air was humid, pleasantly warm, and smelled slightly of sulphur and salt.

The cave was quiet and empty, just as I'd hoped. Most Witchers bathed before supper, Triss had told me. The thought alone that they could see me naked, bathing, vulnerable, made my stomach clench.

Quickly, I chose one of the hotter pools towards the edge of the cave, well hidden behind several big rocks. A soft light emanated from the water, illuminating the room enough to see where I was going. The springs were of an incredible deep blue, as blue as forget-me-nots and the afternoon sky.

With a sigh, I sank beneath the steam-covered surface. This was the absolute best thing of the whole castle. After seconds, the lingering cold in my bones dissipated, and my muscles relaxed gradually. I leaned my head back and let my mind wander.

Light reflections danced across the rocks and the low, uneven ceiling, like sun on ocean waves.

This day had been strange, unexpected. I thought I'd be dead by now, or maybe chained to a wall. But Jaskier had sung a whole repertoire of Witcher songs after supper, some of them I'd heard at Oxenfurt but not at court, songs that illustrated the Witcher's bravery, their good hearts, their kindness…

I'd known that he sung them partly for me, and they'd helped. Through his songs, I _could_ see the man behind the predator. It felt like regaining knowledge I'd believed forgotten; his songs, his words touched something deep inside me, and I couldn't help believe every single one of his lines.

Maybe because I wanted to believe them so badly.

Sighing, I lathered unscented soap into my hair and body and dove to wash it away. When I broke the surface again, I had the sudden feeling that I wasn't alone anymore. Something in the room had changed, so minimally it was barely noticeable, but my instincts warned me. I strained my ears, but I couldn't hear footsteps over the gentle sloshing of water, and the bottom half of the room was covered in thick steam.

Perhaps it was just someone who wanted a bath as well?

Probably. Nobody knew I was here. Why would anybody follow me anyway?

_You know why_ , my mind whispered evilly.

No! They wouldn't hurt me. Jaskier had said so, again and again. They wouldn't touch me. They wouldn't, they wouldn't…

_They are men_ , my mind reminded me, oh so cruelly. _They will take what they want, and there's nothing you can do about it._

_No_ , I told myself firmly. This fear was unreasonable. Unreasonable but still _there_.

Quickly, I climbed out of the water, wrapping myself in the large towel. I didn't bother to hide my presence because, if it was a Witcher, he'd hear me anyway. I wrung out my hair over the pool, grabbed the soap and headed towards the warm changing room where my clothes waited for me. I kept along the wall, listening out for footsteps, voices, sounds… but I heard nothing but my own heart.

The steam was swirling in lazy circles and shapes, and I turned my head to scan the rest of the room. Maybe I'd been wrong. It was empty and silent.

Sighing, I turned to the exit and –

and walked straight against a hard human body. A startled gasp flew from my throat and I jumped back, losing my balance, and almost falling backwards into the next pool. However, a hand shot out of nowhere and grabbed me, pulling me back, pulling me close.

I smelled leather and armour and metal, felt strong finger wrapped completely around my forearm and a body so unbearably close. It all reminded me too strongly of my nightmare, of the hellish past weeks. I felt my towel slipping, and panicked.

"No," I screamed, pushed against the body, tried to rip my arm out of the grasp –

and the person let me go instantly.

It was so fast I barely understood what was happening. One second I was trapped in leather and human, the next it was just me on the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

"Christina? I'm sorry," a gentle voice said, a voice I knew, and I looked up to find amber eyes looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite identify. As if I'd actually managed to slap him in my panic attack, which was ridiculous.

"E-Eskel," I managed between broken gasps. It was Eskel. He'd followed me. Why? I'd seen his eyes watching me, but they hadn't been lecherous, leering, undressing me. Had I been wrong?

"I'm sorry," he repeated, sounding so bloody earnest I believed him. Quickly, I leapt to my feet. On the ground, I was even more vulnerable – and that was one thing I couldn't be here.

I swayed as blood rushed to my head, and I saw Eskel taking a step towards me, using my weakness to attack. Instantly, I stepped back – into empty air.

I'd forgotten the pool.

Hot water surrounded me, too hot to be comfortable, and I struggled to the surface, clutching the towel with one hand. Coughing and breathing hard, I rolled out of the pool, my eyes searching the room, but the Witcher was gone.

He was gone.

Then, my eyes fell on a small glass bottle where he'd just been. Carefully, I grabbed it, unscrewing the lid.

It smelled heavily like lavender, and instantly, my mind relaxed. Lavender oil.

Wait a moment – Eskel had brought me _lavender oil_?

That made _absolutely_. _No_. _Sense_.

* * *

"I fucked up," Eskel said as soon as the door closed behind him.

Geralt and Jaskier were sitting on the bed, cuddled up; Jaskier had his lute on his lab and was absentmindedly humming a tune, composing, while Geralt stroked his hair, just content with his company. They looked at him, startled.

"Shit. I fucked up so bad," Eskel added, plopping down on the bed and burying his face in his hands. The happy, content smell faded a little, which made Eskel feel even guiltier. Now he was burdening his friends with his problems.

"Sh, darling." Instantly, Jaskier's arms were wrapped around him, gentle and comforting and everything that Eskel didn't deserve. "Tell us what happened."

"I… I don't know. I…" he murmured, trying to make sense of Christina's reaction. He'd wanted to do something nice, and he'd scared her so badly, so, so badly. He felt awful, guilty, like a real monster. Something in his chest constricted, and he couldn't breathe.

"Eskel," Geralt said quietly, sitting down on Eskel's other side. Now he was tightly wrapped in between his two favourite persons, but Eskel didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to be comforted after what he'd done. But he also didn't have the strength to push them away.

"Start at the beginning, darling. I'm sure that it can't be that bad," Jaskier said.

"Lavender oil," Eskel rasped between two calming breaths. The honey smell of love still hung in the air, and it grounded him.

"Hm?" Geralt prompted.

"I wanted to give her lavender oil. Christina, I mean. I think she liked the smell. I'd noticed yesterday in Triss' chambers…" Eskel swallowed. "So I asked Triss where she was."

"And?" Jaskier questioned pointedly.

Eskel winced. "Bathing. I thought, perfect, she can use it for her hair if she wants, but…"

"You ambushed her in the baths and she panicked?" Jaskier asked in a knowing, almost exasperated voice. His fingers left Eskel's back and the loss of his touch felt like a rejection, a deserved punishment. But instead, Jaskier's hands framed his face. "Look at me, Eskel."

Slowly, the Witcher looked up. Jaskier was kneeling in front of him, so close Eskel could count his lashes.

"What did I do?" he asked in a small voice. He hadn't meant to _ambush_ her, as Jaskier had put it, just give her the oil.

"Oh, darling." Jaskier's gaze turned pitying. "Sometimes, I really wonder… I mean, you can predict the movements of a ghoul blindfolded and follow the scent of person through a whole country, but you have the empathy of a brick wall."

Geralt snorted.

"I'm talking you too, o White Wolf," Jaskier said, looking at his lover. "Or can you explain where the problem lies?"

That shut Geralt up. Because he couldn't. "Hm," he said grumpily.

"I feel this is worth a song… what rhymes with wall?"

"Jaskier," Geralt interrupted him before they could diverge too much from the topic.

"Oh, right. How do I explain this?" Jaskier paused, thinking. "How would you feel if you were bathing, without armour or weapons, and a… I don't know – a werewolf would appear."

"Then I deserve to be killed if I'm that stupid," Geralt replied, echoing Eskel's train of thoughts.

"You're saying I'm the werewolf?" Eskel asked slowly, understanding the metaphor.

"No, darling… well, in this case, yes. But imagine, you'd just been hurt very badly by a werewolf, and you take a bath to clean yourself, and your weapons are too far away, and you're really tired… and then another werewolf appears. Would you not think it came to hurt you?"

"Obviously," Eskel said, still not totally grasping where this was going. He'd already understood that he was a monster, thank you very much.

"What… what if it was just someone cursed to look like a werewolf and… and he wanted to bring lavender oil for your hair," Jaskier continued, stretching this metaphor a little out of the range of the possible.

Geralt snorted again.

"But I didn't… I'm not… I wasn't…" Eskel stuttered. Even naked and bathing, he'd still be capable of fighting off a monster –

but Christina wasn't, was she?

Eskel _had_ ambushed her in a vulnerable position, and she'd come to the only possible conclusion: that he'd come to hurt her. Because men had attacked her before.

"Fuck," he cursed, anger at himself and at the men who'd hurt her replacing the guilt. "What do I do now?"

Jaskier exchanged a quick glance with Geralt, then leaned forward to hug Eskel. "Just talk to her, apologise maybe."

"What happened to her Jaskier?" the White Wolf asked."You grasped this so quickly… there's something you're not saying."

Eskel felt Jaskier tense, but he played it down with a joke. "Perhaps I'm just more perceptive than the mighty Witchers?" He winked, but there was a sadness in his blue eyes.

"Hm."

Part of Eskel wanted to push, to know what Jaskier was hiding. Was it something to do with bathing? Or just with being less strong than your opponent? Eskel had seen the rope burns on her wrist – so they'd tied her up, to prevent her from running probably. She'd been helpless. That could be terrifying enough for a human girl, he guessed.

"As if," Eskel agreed with Geralt, going for light and teasing. But he was painfully aware that a part of Jaskier's words were true. How could _he_ have guessed what had happened to the duchess when Eskel hadn't? He'd heard the exact same words Eskel had, seen the same reactions. What was the Witcher missing?

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Jaskier said, turning serious again instead of teasing.

"I could've prevented it, though, if I… I'm so stupid. Fuck. What was I thinking?"

"Eskel!" Jaskier admonished sharply, and Eskel's head snapped up towards him. The bard was looking at him sternly. "It happened, accept it. Now you know what _not_ to do next time. Stop thinking about it and fix it."

"Fix it," Eskel repeated. He'd definitely fix it, he just didn't know how. _Yet_.

"Now, I was just giving Geralt a preview of my new song – about the Basilisk story Coën told at dinner. Lean back and enjoy," the bard ordered and pushed at Eskel's shoulder.

The Witcher grunted, but felt the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. So he leaned back against the bed, Geralt's arm over his shoulder, and listened to his favourite bard.

* * *

_It was pitch black outside. The fire had burned down to embers, and the soldiers were sleeping. At least, I_ hoped _they were sleeping._

_Carefully, I peered outside through the small window, but I couldn't see anything._

_If I could grab one of the horses, I might make it… anywhere. Anywhere that wasn't here. I hadn't thought about where to go. Just away. Away from these terrible men, away from the Warlord._

_Away._

_Maybe one of my sisters would hide me._

_It'd been three days since Marten had… attacked me, and we were due to reach a city soon. I felt filthy, but I hadn't even been allowed to wash properly in the river. (I'd had to make do with a rag and the water in my waterskin.) I still felt sore between my legs, and I was sure there were still traces of blood on my dress, and on my legs, and…_

_Silently, I opened the door of the carriage, paused, waited, listened. Three men were snoring around the fire, two were keeping watch. But I knew where they were standing, when they moved. I'd watched them the last nights, not being able to sleep because of the fear what would happen if I allowed myself to relax, to sleep._

_Deep shadows waited between the trees, to deep to be penetrated by my weak human eyes or illuminated by the dying fire, and I felt watched._

_As quiet as possible, I slipped out of the carriage and tip-toed to the horses, hiding between them, so the guards wouldn't see me easily. One of the horses snorted in greeting, but they stayed remarkably silent._

_Carefully, I loosened the knot around the tree that held all horses, hoping the soldiers wouldn't realise that one was missing when they'd noticed the horses had escaped; then I grabbed the rope of one of the smaller horses – a sturdy, black one without any markings – and tugged it deeper into the woods. The floor was moss-covered, muffling the horse's footsteps. One of the horses behind me whinnied quietly, and I paused, but the men didn't react._

_I'd barely made it twenty steps from the camp, when a voice behind me growled, "Where're you going, sweetheart?"_

_I didn't hesitate. Instantly, I pulled myself on the horse's back, muscles stiff from the day spent sitting, and dug my heels into its side. But I was too slow. The soldier had leapt forward, grabbing the reins of the animal and holding it in place._

_"_ _You're gonna climb down, nice and easy, sweetheart, or I will make you," Alfred threatened silently. His voice had attracted the other guard; I could hear him running through the undergrowth._

_"_ _Come on," I said, nudging the horse sideways with my calf. I knew it could probably drag the soldier along if it wanted to, but apparently, it_ didn't _want to. It only stamped, completely ignoring me._

_Fuck._

_"_ _As you want, sweetheart," Alfred sneered, grabbing my ankle and pulling be down._

_The floor rushed up towards me, and –_

I woke, a strangled scream on my lips.

This time, I knew where I was. The fire was still burning merrily – Triss' magic helped in that regard – and I could see the outlines of my room perfectly.

But knowing where I was didn't help at all. My heart was still beating like mad, and even though I pressed my face in my pillow, I could still hear the sobs escaping my throat. Tears were burning in my eyes, and I hated them. I hated myself for being so bloody stupid. I should've waited for the town, should've slipped away then.

Triss had given me an herbal tea last evening, and I'd fallen asleep quickly. But it seemed that my nightmares were stronger than her tea.

A knock echoed through the room and I tensed, holding my breath and willing the treacherous sobs to stop.

"Christina?"

It was Eskel. Again.

The bottle of lavender oil was standing on my bedside table, and I'd stared at it before falling asleep. After having turned everything over in my head, I'd realised that I'd overreacted. Eskel had wanted to give me lavender oil, likely for my hair.

How had he known how much I liked the smell?

I pushed that thought away. I needed to apologise – but not now. I still felt too raw from my nightmare, too vulnerable.

I wished Eskel would go away –

I wished he'd come in.

"Christina, please…" he said quietly but didn't open the door, respecting my privacy. I bit into the flesh of my arm until it hurt, forcing myself to control my breathing. Maybe he'd just go away if I didn't react. I didn't know if I could face him like this, didn't know how.

After a moment, I heard his footsteps walking away. I knew he could be perfectly silent if he wanted to, so he made noise on purpose to… calm me?

I opened my eyes and stared at the blurry outline of the lavender oil bottle, tinted in an orange glow. I hadn't deserved this. It couldn't be just a gift, could it? There was always a hidden agenda, something he wanted in return.

Just what?

He could've hurt me in the baths, he could enter my room right now and take what he wanted. And he didn't.

Why?

New tears welled up in my eyes, and I pressed the ball of my hands over my eye to stop them. I'd wanted Eskel to leave, but now I felt… utterly alone. It was a loneliness I could hear, a hollowness that wanted to devour me.

Maybe I should've opened the door and let him fight the cold hollowness for me. I knew I should be strong, stronger than this, but here, alone in the dark, I couldn't find the strength in me to do it, to fight the lingering fear of my nightmare.

Out of the blue, it knocked again and I jolted upright.

"Christina, I brought you tea," Eskel said quietly. "I… I can leave it here, or I can come in and give it to you, or…"

"Come in," I heard myself say, not even bothering to hide the evidence of my tears. He'd heard me cry. And if he wanted to enter my room, I couldn't stop him anyway. I didn't understand why he'd pretend to have made me tea, but –

The door opened, and in the light of the fire I could see Eskel's bulky silhouette, holding a tray in hand. The smell of chamomile and liquorice reached me.

Tea.

He'd _actually_ made me tea.

I stared at him while he ventured deeper into my room, closed the door, and gingerly approached the bed.

"I'll put it on the table, all right?" Eskel asked, and I could see that there was a large steaming tea pot and a cup on the tray.

I still couldn't quite believe it.

This was… this was… _nice_?

Fuck.

Fresh tears burned in my eyes, and I tried to swallow around the frog in my throat. "Th-thanks."

"Jaskier said tea helps," Eskel offered, trying to smile. His amber eyes reflected the firelight, appearing almost orange – a nice orange. The orange of sunsets and poppies.

I didn't know what to say, so I nodded again.

"Err… right. We'll talk in the morning, yes?" Without waiting for an answer, the Witcher turned. The thought of him leaving me was suddenly unbearable. He was keeping the hollowness, the darkness, the loneliness at bay, and I just… I didn't want to be alone.

"Stay," I said quickly, and Eskel paused, turning around slowly, as if not to scare me.

"What?" he asked eloquently.

"Stay," I repeated more firmly. "If you want to, of course."

"Um…" He hesitated, his eyes searching my gaze for something, I didn't know what. So I pointed at the chair – him, sitting on my bed was a little too close, too familiar, still.

Eskel nodded and grabbed the chair, putting it next to me and the bedside table, his back to the door.

"I'm sorry I woke you again," I whispered, reaching for the tea pot and filling my cup. I didn't dare to look at him.

The warmth seeped into my fingers and the smell was calming. Without caring how hot it was, I took a sip. I loved tea, could drink it half-boiling. Instantly, I felt a little better.

"It's fine," he replied. I cast him a glance from the corner of my eyes and found that his fingers were picking at the sleeves of his shirt as if he was nervous.

"Do Witchers have nightmares?" I asked, cursing myself immediately. Rude.

But Eskel didn't seem offended. "Of course. Monsters leave their traces, especially the ones we created."

I didn't really know what he meant with that, and I didn't want to ask.

"It's normal that you'd have nightmares after everything you endured," he added and my fingers held the cup tighter. Quickly, I buried my face in the steam and took another sip. "Your mind needs to process the trauma."

"You sound like the teacher of my mind healing class," I deflected. Of course, I knew he was right. I knew the nightmares would stay a while, until I'd come to terms with everything, and even a little while longer. "I'll ask Triss for a different tea… or maybe we should soundproof my room."

"We don't mind, really. The others might grumble a little, but we all had nightmares during the path. They'll just turn around and continue sleeping," Eskel said.

"Then, why didn't you?"

Eskel became very, very still, and I hated myself a little more for that question.

"I was worried," he whispered after a long moment. "I just can't hear your pain. It hurts."

His honesty was disarming; it warmed me from within better than the tea ever could. The strange urge overcame me to give him something back, some piece of truth. "Do you want to know what I dreamed about?"

"If you wanted to tell me, I'd listen, but you don't have to," he replied, his eyes like molten amber. I realised that he was carrying no sword, no weapon at all. Just a half-buttoned shirt and trousers hung to his muscular frame, just like last night, and his skin looked soft and tanned in the firelight. His Witcher's medallion was gleaming, and I could almost hear the Wolf roar.

"During the journey, I tried to escape twice," I began, looking back at the dark, hot liquid in my cup. "The first time, I went by foot. They didn't realise it for a while, but then, they took the horses and caught me. After that, they watched me closely." I took a sip of the tea, still not meeting Eskel's eyes. I knew I'd find pity there, or maybe contempt. "The second time… the second time, I stole a horse, but…" My voice hitched. "I didn't even make it out of the camp. They pulled me down and…" I took another large gulp, enjoying how the tea burned down my throat. "When I came to, they'd bound my hands together and tied them to the carriage. They said, _You want to run? So run!_ "

I heard Eskel shift but kept my gaze firmly on the teacup. I could still remember the tightness of the rope around my wrists, being pulled forward, my legs and lungs burning, my feet bloody, dust clinging to my dry mouth, stumbling, being dragged through the dirt –

"We rode for a day without break. They kept me tied to the carriage for three more days, until I… passed out," I admitted. The Witcher could probably walk three days without passing out, but I was just a human.

It was silent in the aftermath of my words. A heavy, deadly silence that made me feel ice cold. All I could hear was the cracking of the fire, of a log shifting, breaking, being devoured by fire.

"A few years back, a village called us for help," Eskel said suddenly, his voice carefully level to show no emotions. His words came as a relief, chasing away the oppressive quiet. When I looked up, I found him staring at his own hands. "Harpies. I went alone. I'd done that job alone for _decades_ …" He sighed. "I made a mistake and fell down a cliff, shattered almost all bones in my body. Geralt and Vesemir had to rescue me, and it took Triss _a day_ to patch me back up."

A _day_. I swallowed. Witcher healing.

Then, I realised what he'd just said. He'd admitted a weakness, admitted to making mistakes. So Witchers weren't these perfect creatures, these half-gods. They were human. Just as I was.

"I'm sorry," Eskel said suddenly, looking up from his hands and appearing surprised to find me looking back at him. His scar lay in the shadows again, just his amber eyes glowed.

"For what?" I asked, pouring more tea in my cup to not have to look at him longer. I knew exactly what he was going to say, and I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want him to talk about what the soldiers had done, about –

"For the baths."

I paused, my cup only half full. "What?"

Eskel looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I scared you, and I'm sorry. I didn't realise…" He shook his head, his voice trailing away.

"No. Don't feel sorry. It was my fault. I overreacted," I replied quickly, putting the tea pot back on the tray and clinging to the cup like a lifeline.

Eskel winced as if my apology had hurt him. "And I overstepped your boundaries without even realising."

Hastily, I took a sip of tea. Nobody had ever apologised for that before. Eskel was a strange man. Were all Witchers like that or just he? How did all these terrible stories about them evolve when they were nothing but kind? Yes, they were dangerous, and skilled, and … well, not human, but –

"The Cub said you want to learn to handle a sword."

Automatically, I tensed. He hadn't sounded angry, but my brother also never sounded angry before he'd struck me.

"I was just… forget it, please," I begged.

"Why? Do you not want to learn?" Eskel asked, sounding genuinely confused, and I dared to look at him again. There was not a trace of anger on his face, all soft lines and deep shadows.

Witchers could hear lies, right? So I went with the truth. "I do. But I understand that I shouldn't."

That made Eskel even more confused. "Why shouldn't you?"

"I'm a woman." It was as simple as that. Unfair maybe, but most people wouldn't see it that way.

"Ciri's a woman, too. So is Ingrid and…" he interrupted himself, understanding something. "You're father didn't allow it, you said. Because you are a _noble_ woman." Now he sounded angry. "This court is different. You can do whatever you want to do."

"But there are no female Witchers – Witcheresses?" I tried.

His fingers twitched. "That has different reasons. The trials are… brutal. Only three out of ten boys used to survive. I'd imagine that girls just didn't."

"Or it has never been tried," I argued, still hearing the words of my father in my ear. _A girl with a sword is a freak._

"Not in Kaer Morhen, you're right. I don't know about other schools."

"So you…" I silenced myself, but Eskel wouldn't let it stand.

"I _what_?"

"You're not… you don't think I should stay pretty and delicate and utterly defenceless."

He stared at me for a long moment; then he chuckled, actually _chuckled_. "No, I don't think that." He shrugged. "None of the Witchers who've seen the Cub fight would ever say that. We can start tomorrow if it made you feel better."

My mouth fell open. _Cirilla_ accepting to train me and _Eskel_ , a Witcher, the fucking right hand to the White Wolf, offering to train me were two completely different things. He was still smiling a little at me, and, for a moment, I thought I'd never seen a more handsome man.

"You mean that, don't you?" I forced out.

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't," he replied evenly.

Quickly, I take a gulp of the lukewarm tea. It had cooled down while we'd been talking. That seemed what it came down to: Witchers said what they meant. They were honest. They were supporting. They were fucking _kind_.

There had to be a catch.

I mustered all my bravery, asking, "What would you expect in return?"

Eskel frowned, the lingering smile vanishing from his features. "Well…"

_Here it comes_ , I thought. I knew it had to be too good to be true.

"If you could take a look at the accounting, it _would_ really help me. I was trained to be a _Witcher_ , not a bloody bookkeeper."

My mouth fell open a second time in this conversation.


	3. Did you want to see me broken?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some misunderstandings and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Triss talks some sense into Christina, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your nice comments and kudos left!
> 
> Title from Still I Rise, Maya Angelou. The linguistics part is taken from Dutch since Nilfgaardian is apparently borrowing a lot of stuff from it, so why not some pronunciation rules? (I have actually no idea about the correct pronunciation!)
> 
> TW: accidental self-harm

The next morning, I woke up in time for breakfast – possibly because of the litre of tea I'd drunken in the night. I had a busy day ahead of me, a new day, a new dawn…

 _I_ should be the new bard, I mused while dressing as well as I could without maid. A simple braid in my hair, and I was finished. I was almost out the door when an idea occurred to me, and I hesitated.

The glass bottle Eskel had given to me stood innocently on my bedside table.

Taking a split-second decision, I went back and put a tiny drop of lavender oil behind my ears.

Breakfast was quiet, and I was thankful for it. I'd been able to find the hall all on my own, and Triss had waved me over before I'd had to decide where to sit. Mornings were not my favourite time of day, but I was feeling more energetic than I had for _weeks_. Cirilla was talking animatedly, describing something with her hands, but I couldn't quite make out her words ( _I_ didn't have Witcher hearing, after all). The White Wolf was watching her attentively, as was Jaskier, but there were amber eyes looking at me. And… was that a smile?

My lips quirked a little, but then I quickly focused back on the fresh bread with butter on my plate.

"So, any plans for today?" Triss asked me, sipping a cup of spiced tea.

"Um… the princess asked me to practise some languages with her, and… I wanted to help Eskel with the books."

Triss lifted one elegant eyebrow; then she turned her head, her eyes searching the White Wolf's right hand. Eskel looked thunderstruck, as if he didn't expect me to hold to the bargain we'd made in the night.

Maybe he had second thoughts about the training?

"And, well, I'm not good with plants, but I can chop them if you want," I volunteered, remembering faintly how Triss had cut the brain when I'd met her. "Maybe we can see if we find another human-safe remedy for…" I swallowed. "Sleeping."

Triss nodded slowly, turning her attention back to me. "Yes. Perhaps you can help me until mid-morning; then you'd have some time with the Cub. She'll be with Jaskier and Helen, I'd imagine, but I can show you the way."

I nodded.

"Then, after supper, you can help Eskel, or rest a little, or have a look at the library…"

 _Or do sword practise_ , I added in my mind, but I didn't want to tell Triss. Not yet. Not until I could actually see it happening.

* * *

"Did you know how much Christina knows about languages, uncle Jaskier?" Cirilla asked rather loudly during dinner, and I very determinedly stared at the stew on my plate. "Even more than you do. I mean, you speak good Elder, but… it was utterly fascinating. I can speak Nilfgaardian, but there are so many things I've never noticed. For example, did you know that _ard_ – you know, meaning _great_ – and _art_ are pronounced the same, even though one is written with a _d_?" She looked expectantly at Jaskier, who smiled at her enthusiasm.

"You're right, Cub."

Cirilla had obviously expected a more surprised reaction, so she continued, "This happens with aaaaaall the consonants at the end of a word. I didn't realise. I think I've been mispronouncing _bleidd_ all the time, and nobody told me!" She looked over to me. "What did you call it? Final… final…"

I took pity on her and said, "Final-obstruent devoicing."

"Exactly!" She beamed at me as if I'd just told her where to find a huge treasure.

"What is an obstruent?" the White Wolf asked, and I choked on my stew.

Fuck.

I couldn't remember how to breathe, much less what the question had been. Thankfully, Cirilla had had the same question, so she answered for me. "Obstruents are a class of consonants where the airflow is more obstructed, like in _t_ or _f_ , in contrast to… an _l_ , for example." She smiled proudly, and I couldn't believe my eyes when the White Wolf smiled _back_.

"Did I explain it right?" she asked me.

"Absolutely." I nodded. I couldn't believe she even remembered it, but that girl took everything in so quickly.

Jaskier looked at me somewhat impressed. "I didn't know that, and I _studied_ the seven liberal arts. Maybe I should've stayed for your lesson."

"Maybe that class wasn't offered back then," I replied diplomatically because I hadn't wanted to embarrass him. Men didn't like it when you knew more than they did, and even less, when you _showed_ them that you knew more.

"You _should_ stay next time," Cirilla talked over me, and I was almost glad for it.

"Deal." Jaskier winked at me, and thankfully turned the topic on something else, so I could hide in my stew.

After dinner, Cirilla disappeared to train with Yennefer, Jaskier disappeared to compose, and the White Wolf disappeared to do gods know what.

Eskel stepped up to my chair, and I turned to face him. "Did you mean what you said this morning?" he asked tentatively.

"Do you have an office?"

"Um…" He glanced at Triss, who nodded encouragingly. It was endearing to watch the powerful, strong Witcher so insecure. "Yes. But if you're tired…"

He was offering me a way out. But I didn't want a way out. I wanted to help Eskel. Actually, _he_ looked a little tired –

 _of course, he'd look tired after you kept him awake two night in a row, you idiot!_ , I scolded myself.

"I'm not tired," I said quickly, standing up. The more time I spent with Eskel the less afraid I was of him, and I liked that. I didn't want to be afraid anymore. Even though he was much more intimidating in his armour than he'd been during the night.

The Witcher nodded a little helplessly, and we crossed the hall to a back door I hadn't noticed before. Eskel was silent while he led me though the entrails of the keep to a large, rectangular room.

There was no fire in the hearth, so it was cold, and only one small window illuminated the desk in front of it. There was a large bookshelf filled with leather bound books, and letters and parchment were filed in neat stacks on the desk.

Muttering something that sounded like "Sorry", Eskel ignited the hearth with a wave of his hand. I stared speechlessly at the dancing flames. Right, Witchers knew magic as well. Of course, they did. Was there anything they couldn't do?

Ah, right. Basic social interaction.

(No surprise humans feared them.)

Eskel dragged another chair to his desk, inviting me to sit before sitting down himself. "So…" he began, "You're sure about this?"

I smiled, one of the few real smiles I'd smiled in ages. "You make it sound like I'm offering to cut off my fingers."

Eskel winced, staring with dread at the leather books – as if he'd much rather let somebody cut off his fingers than doing bookkeeping. It was nice to find out new things about the Witcher. He hated bookkeeping. Like a lot of humans did, I figured.

I actually didn't know all that much about it. My classes in arithmetic or at the faculty of trade hadn't exactly covered it, but I was a fast learner.

Eskel sighed deeply; then he opened one of the books and started explaining what needed to be done.

A few hours later, we'd gone through a massive pile of letters and inventories, transferred them to Eskel's books, and calculated the numbers. I groaned, stretching my stiff neck and closing the book with a decisive _thud_.

"Huh," Eskel said, looking at the much smaller pile of letters. "We might even be able to finish this tomorrow. I mean…" He looked at me. "If you want to. You don't need to. You already helped me a lot. You're idea was really smart and…"

"I'll help," I replied quickly, if only to stop him from being so fucking nice, praising me. There had to be a catch, godsdamnit. Nobody was just this patient all the time.

"Oh, um, yes." Eskel stood up, slightly embarrassed, if Witchers could be embarrassed, that is. "Do you need a break? We could meet in one hour for training."

I blinked. He still wanted to train me, even though I'd already helped him.

"That sounds good," I mumbled, standing up as well. I really needed the rest. "Cirilla wanted to join, so maybe we should tell her."

Eskel nodded. "I'll do it. Do you need help finding your room?"

"Err…" I remembered the way from the mess hall, but from here…

However, Eskel only smiled and escorted me to my room, like a perfect gentleman – without the linking of arms or casual touches that would be usual at court. Maybe he simply wasn't interested in me? He certainly seemed close with the White Wolf and Jaskier… unthinkable in any other court. But _here_?

A little crazy maybe but possible. Entirely possible.

That must be the reason that he never _looked_ at me like other nobles did, like some Witchers did as well – not the White Wolf, or Jaskier, or anybody at the Wolf's table, to be honest; but I'd felt their stares. That must be the reason he'd left me alone, even naked in the baths or crying in my bed.

I'd partly convinced myself that Eskel wasn't interested in women when we reached my door. The torches cast his face in flickering light, making his scar move across his right half of the face, but the other half was smiling.

"You smell nice," Eskel said suddenly, as if he was making a remark about the weather – windy and cold, by the way.

Wait, _what_?

I couldn't even gather my thoughts – was that a _compliment_? – before he turned, calling, "I'll come back for you in an hour."

And as silently as a cat, he was gone.

I stared for a few more moments at the empty hallway, then fled into the sanctuary of my room.

Maybe Eskel simply liked lavender. He'd given me the oil, after all.

Maybe he expected a 'thank you' for his gift and tried to remind me of it.

Maybe…

I leaned my head against the wood and breathed in deeply. Why were these stupid Witchers so utterly confusing?

* * *

The wooden practice sword was heavy in my hand.

Cirilla was showing me how to hold it, and I was thankful it was her and not Eskel because my tentative trust in him would certainly have shattered if he'd pointed a sword at me, even a wooden one.

We were in an empty practice room. The Witchers preferred to train outside or in the large hall reserved for training.

"Your arms are stronger than they look," Cirilla said when I lifted the sword with ease. I took it as a compliment.

"It wasn't a lie when I said I know how to use a bow. That also requires strength, arm strength mainly, but also in your abs, your core." I touched my stomach slightly.

"Of course," she replied lightly, indicating I should take the position they'd shown me before. My dress stretched over my legs, hindering my movements a little. It was designed to be pretty, not to afford a great range of movement.

Cirilla was wearing simple brown trousers that ended in high boots – much more practical than my stupid dresses. Maybe I could ask for some trousers as well? Or maybe a wider skirt?

I contemplated these ideas while I watched how the girl moved, shifted her weight, turned her foot, held her sword. It seemed to be a basic defensive stance.

"If you were a Witcher, we'd start with footwork only, but it'll be good for your strength to hold a sword, get accustomed to it," Eskel said.

I nodded, lifting the sword like Cirilla had and trying to copy her movements. For one hour, we went through some simple combinations, mainly steps, but I also had to learn how to hold and move the sword accordingly.

At the end of it, my right wrist, biceps, and shoulder ached, but it was a good ache. It indicated that I had done something, worked, improved. Cirilla had been enthusiastic to teach me, and Eskel had been patient, correcting my stance over and over again.

Finally, Cirilla excused herself while I emptied my waterskin in a few long gulps.

"Why do you want to learn how to fight?" Eskel asked, leaning against a pillar and watching me.

I put the waterskin down, brushing the wetness from my mouth. This was a complicated question – well, the _answer_ was rather complicated. I glanced at Eskel, but there was only curiosity on his face. Something about that coaxed the truth over my lips.

"I want to be able to defend myself, to at least have a _chance_. Women can die of a sword just as easily as men, and I'd much rather not. Die, that is." Absentmindedly, my fingers wandered to the faded rope burns around my wrist, but I paused as soon as I noticed. "I hate being weak, feeling defenceless. I don't want to be a victim. I don't want to have to just _take_ the hits."

"You want to hit back," Eskel said, looking at me as if I was a great enigma and he wanted to figure it out.

"Or evade the hit," I corrected quietly. "I want to be capable. I want to be able to face five soldiers and not end up on the ground and bloody. I want to know what to do when someone holds me down. I want to be able to escape. I want to protect myself and not rely on anybody else." The words had tumbled over my lips completely without control, my voice trembling with emotion.

Now, I realised what I'd revealed, but it was too late. Eskel knew my fears now, and he could use them oh so easily against me… but, somehow, I believed he wouldn't.

"You don't need a sword for that," he replied after a moment, pushing himself away from the pillar and approaching me. "I can show you how to dodge hits. I can show you how to move quietly. I can show you how to escape ties."

He was holding the carrot in front of my nose – everything I wanted – and I was so scared that he'd take it away in a moment. But then… he'd also shown me how to use a sword, he'd kept his word. His amber eyes were open and honest, and I knew he absolutely meant it.

"And in return?" I asked, keeping the hope out of my voice. If he knew how much I wanted this, he had power over me.

Eskel frowned. "Nothing."

My eyes narrowed. "Why would you offer it, then?"

"Why _wouldn't_ I?" he retorted, confused. He obviously had no idea how these things worked in the real world.

"I can't pay you," I replied because I had no coin, nothing but the clothes on my back. "So for it to be a trade, I need to give you something back. I don't want to exploit you or abuse the kindness you and the White Wolf have shown me." This wasn't the whole reason, of course, but I didn't need to tell him that. I didn't want to be in his debt. Debts were dangerous.

"Exploit me." Eskel snorted. "Just help me with the books, and we're square."

I scrutinised him, searched for something hidden. But, to my surprise, I found nothing. Again, it seemed that Eskel said what he meant. How peculiar.

"How about after supper?" he suggested when I didn't react. "Then you can use the rest of the daylight for reading or taking a walk or whatever you'd like to do."

"Really?" I asked. I knew I was pushing it a little, but I just couldn't help myself.

"Why do you not believe me?" he asked, his voice still calm and gentle, but his gaze had turned piercing. "Because I'm a Witcher?"

"No," I replied before I could stop the truth from breaking out from behind my lips. Quickly, I dropped my gaze. "You don't know much about court, do you?"

I could feel him stepping closer and tensed, waited for him to touch me, to force my head up or take my hand. But he didn't. He just stood there, waiting. I could smell the leather of his armour, the faint scent of smoke, and something that was undeniably Eskel himself. Carefully, I lifted my gaze and met his.

"I don't. But it sounds like a terrible place," he said.

I didn't know what to say to that. Yes, it was a terrible place. But it was the only place I'd ever known, my home. Well… not anymore.

I had no home. I belonged nowhere.

I was nothing but property, property of the White Wolf. He could keep me here or send me away, just as he pleased.

Suddenly, Eskel's promises of training me felt useless – nothing but a drop in the ocean – because I was _still_ just as powerless. I had exchanged one cage for another – my father's and brother's court for Kaer Morhen. The Witcher needed no sword to subdue me, no ties to bind me, and there was _nothing_ I could do. Now, I didn't even have a title anymore that protected me, no family, no coin, _nothing_.

"Christina?" Eskel's voice ripped me from the downward spiral of my thoughts, and I focused back on him. He looked concerned, a small furrow hovering between his brows. A strand of his dark brown hair had fallen into his face, but he made no move to brush it away.

"I'm fine," I said automatically, curling my fists at my sides. Suddenly, he was too close, too tall, too big, too… too nice. I wanted him to stop behaving so weirdly; I wanted to figure him out; I wanted to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I had two options: fight or flight. And I was not stupid enough to make a Witcher angry, so I took the second option.

"See you at supper," I choked out, turned on my heel and almost ran all the way to my rooms.

Eskel didn't follow me.

* * *

Eskel stared at the duchess' retreating back, unable to move or follow. Her reaction had sucker-punched him – _again_. She never did what he expected her to do.

Suddenly, she'd smelled so… hopeless. It had sucked all air out his lungs. What had he done wrong?

Then, her smell had turned angry. Anger, he understood, the burning in the chest, the urge to hit something – but, again, she'd reacted completely unexpected. Why had she run away? Was it him? Could she not bear his presence any longer?

He was the scarred Witcher, the freak, the mutant. Of course, she'd run sooner or later. Eskel told himself that he was glad that it was sooner before he'd become too attached.

(Because he wasn't attached. He wasn't!)

It was just that…

In only two days, Christina had found ways to make herself indispensable to him. Her idea how to calculate the stock had been so simple but genius. The way she'd made Ciri laugh at dinner and during sword practice. The secret smile they'd shared over breakfast. The way she smelled, like the lavender oil he'd given her.

She'd moved like a dancer during practice – elegant, light on her feet, a little too controlled perhaps. She hadn't complained when her arm hurt, just changed her sword to the other hand for a moment, and then continued. Her braid had flowed down her back past her shoulder blades, and Eskel had caught himself admiring her hair, imagining it untamed and falling freely over her back. Would it be slightly curly like Ciri's or straight like Yen's? Would it feel just as silky as it looked beneath his fingertips?

He'd like to comb his fingers through her hair, to watch it shimmer golden when it caught the sunlight.

But then he thought, _What a peculiar thing to think about a woman you just met?!_

And _then_ he thought… _Fuck_.

Witchers didn't do love. There was no space on the Path for love. (Vesemir had drilled that into them, over and over.)

But Eskel wasn't on the Path anymore, was he? And he did love. He loved Geralt and Jaskier and Ciri, in different ways, yes, but he'd give his life for them in a heartbeat.

This, however, felt different. Too fast, too unpredictable, too raw… _wrong_.

Christina needed a friend, not a lover. And Eskel obviously couldn't give her what she wanted, what she needed; hell, he couldn't even hold a conversation with her without it ending in an emotional turmoil.

This – whatever this was – wasn't good for either of them, it seemed.

Besides, she'd run from him. Again.

He should really give her some space. He was already pushing his ideas on her, demanding things he had no right demanding.

Time and space. That was the solution.

So after supper, Eskel didn't go over to the duchess to ask her if she still wanted to practise, to push and push and push… no, he tapped Geralt's shoulder and asked him to fight. He needed movement, sharp steel swords, energy and rage and lightning-fast attacks.

Geralt didn't ask, but he also didn't hold back. So when Eskel went to his own room this night, half-healed cuts on his arms and fading bruises on his chest, he felt like himself again.

* * *

This night, I didn't sleep. I was tired, but I didn't want to wake up screaming _again_. I didn't want Eskel to come to my room _again_. I didn't want to revisit the past or be afraid of the flickering shadows and the empty room. I didn't want to drink hot tea in the night that tasted a little peculiar but had been prepared with kindness.

So I sat by the fire, another candle on the desk for additional light, and began to alter my dresses. I took the blue gown, the one I hated, the one I arrived in, and a scissor and opened all the seams. The dress had been washed by the servants and my mind knew that the scent was gone, the scent of rotten leaves and earth and sweat, but I still smelled it.

It felt glorious to destroy the dress, the thinly stitched seams, the tight corset, the embroidered cuffs.

Then, I searched for my simplest gown, long-sleeved and ocean grey, and measured out the alterations I wanted to make. All of my sisters would've made better stitches and straighter cuts; they'd have found a way to make the changes look more elegant, less accidental, but I didn't care. My dresses weren't fit for fighting, but I still wanted to learn. So I had to _make_ them fit.

When I thought about supper, bitter disappointment swirled in my gut. Eskel had just disappeared without a word, and I'd realised that I'd expected him to keep his promise. I knew better now.

True, I'd been rude to him, but I'd have apologised. Instead, he'd _ignored_ me.

I smiled bitterly, rubbed my burning eyes, and continued sewing. When the eastern horizon finally lightened, flowing from midnight blue to purple into mauve, the dress was almost finished. It wasn't beautiful, but it was practical.

The hem was half a foot shorter, revealing way too much ankle for a respectable lady, but I was neither respectable nor a lady anymore. Besides, the boots would cover the stockings. I'd added a few inches of fabric hiding in the folds on each side of the skirt, starting at my hip and widening at the hem. It was barely visible when I stood, but I could move now, go into the stance Ciri had shown me more easily. I also added fabric to the body and the shoulders to give me more freedom to move.

There was blue fabric left. I could see how this one turned out, test it and then decide what else I needed to change. Or I could make myself trousers…

No, I should learn how to fight in a dress because that was all I was ever going to wear. Here and at any other godsforsaken place on the Continent, I'd be expected to wear a dress.

The maid knocked quite unexpectedly. I'd had hoped to weasel in at least one hour of sleep before breakfast, but it was too late now.

Maybe next night, I'd be too exhausted to dream.

* * *

Eskel hadn't slept as well as he'd thought he would. Part of him, his unconsciousness, had listened out of a scream, a sob… something. But the keep had stayed peacefully silent.

No smell of terror and pain and fear had invaded night.

No rapid heartbeat or ragged breaths had echoed through the corridors.

Eskel felt confirmed in his decision to stay away. The duchess had obviously slept better this night…

except, she hadn't.

When Eskel spotted her during breakfast, he felt like a shtriga had grabbed him from behind. There were deep shadows under her eyes, as deep as when she'd arrived, and her movements were a little too slow, a little too sluggish. Even Jaskier could see that Christina hadn't slept at all.

They exchanged glances with Triss, but the sorceress just shrugged. She didn't know what was going on either.

* * *

When I followed Triss to her healing chambers, she gave me a stern look and told me to go back to bed. The coltsfoot wasn't going anywhere and Cirilla's lessons could wait for another day.

I felt guilty for abandoning her, but I obeyed. She was right. I felt stretched thing, as if one wrong move, one word, could tear me apart.

I slept until dinner, feeling slightly better and determined to make up for my absence this morning. I could help Triss before supper… well, or after dinner. I wasn't sure if Eskel still wanted my help.

Surprisingly, he did, and we spent two awkward hours in his office, not talking and not looking at each other, until I'd finished my pile of letters.

When I told him, I was too tired for sword practice today, the Witcher just nodded. (I certainly was tired, so I hoped he hadn't noticed the lie.) Instead, I hid in Triss' chambers, in the warm smell of sage and the easy task of cutting this or mixing that.

It was almost supper time when Triss broke the comfortable silence. "Has something happened yesterday?"

I paused, my fingers hovering inches over the thorny plant, before I continued to carefully pluck the tiny green leaves between the nail-long, pointy thorns. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Triss replied brusquely. "You didn't sleep."

"I'm afraid of the dreams."

Triss stayed silent, and I continued plucking the tiny leaves until I couldn't bear it any longer and looked up. The sorceress stared at me from across the large table, green smoke hanging around her from the potion she was brewing.

"Eskel," was all she said, and I flinched, which was as good as a confession.

"How'd you know?" I inquired quietly, my voice carefully neutral.

"The right hand to the Wolf was so awkward today that even the _White Wolf_ picked up on it. And Geralt – well, how did Jaskier put it? – 'has the empathy of a brick wall', I believe."

"The White Wolf?" I squeaked, looking at her in alarm. I should've apologised to Eskel at once. I should've grovelled, pretended that everything was fine. Now the _White Wolf_ knew how badly I'd behaved.

"Christina." Triss was at my side a heartbeat later.

"I can do better," I choke out, my fingers curling around the thorny branch, not even feeling how the plant bit into my skin. "Please…"

Suddenly, I was turned around and pushed down on a chair. "Your hand," Triss said between clenched teeth, and I looked at it, feeling weirdly detached, as if it wasn't my blood that run down my wrist and pooled in my palm. The pain felt oddly grounding.

I'd come here expecting pain. And here, finally it was, but at my own hand. (I didn't understand why this made me feel so good, so in control, but it did.) Besides, the cuts didn't hurt _that_ badly.

"And now you'll tell me what he did, so I can yell at him accordingly," the sorceress added, pressing a strip of cotton over my wound.

I watched her closely. Her hands were gentle and soft, but her movements and her frown angry, her eyes like molten onyx. Her curls bounced every time she moved her head or shoulders. She was the only thing I had akin to a friend here.

So I pulled myself together and told her about everything that'd happened yesterday, about the lavender oil, the nightmare, the bookkeeping, the training and its disastrous end.

"Christina, listen to me closely, and listen well," she said when I finished, sitting down on a chair in front of me. "You're _nobody's_ property, not the White Wolf's nor your brother's. You can stay here or you can go to your sisters. Nobody has the right to hurt you, not your brother, not the soldiers, and not Eskel. You're a guest, and you're welcome to stay over the winter. Or longer, if you swear loyalty to the Wolf."

Every single one of her words destroyed one of the iron bars of my cage, pulverised them. The White Wolf saw me as _guest_. Melitele help me.

"If you want justice for what the soldiers did, I will open a portal right now, and the White Wolf will take them. You can decide if we kill them, or dismember them, or feed them their cocks."

I flinched at her cruel fantasies – in all honesty, I wasn't sure how to deal with the soldiers yet – but Triss kept speaking. "Eskel doesn't have a hidden agenda; he genuinely wants to help you. I can understand that it's too much at the moment, but don't doubt him or the Witchers. They've dealt with so much hate and discrimination and cruelty, they don't deserve your prejudice. If you don't want Eskel to come to your room, tell him, and he won't. He feels just as helpless as you do, and he's not used to dealing with…" She made a fluttering hand movement towards me. "This."

"Thanks," I replied drily.

"Your experiences were terrible, but you're stronger than that," she continued as if I hadn't said anything. "You're already picking up the pieces. Learn how to fight if it makes you feel better; nobody here would ever deny you that. If Eskel pushes too hard, tell him, but don't hurt him."

Her eyes turned hard, like black steel. "What you experienced is _not_ the norm. Not all men are monsters as well as not all monsters are men."

I opened my mouth to tell her that I knew that, but no sounds came out. I did know that. But I'd treated everyone here like a wolf in sheep's clothing, especially Eskel.

Triss gave me a knowing look. "They are good people, Christina. A little rough around the edges, like unpolished diamonds. But they're my family. And they could be yours."

I winced, looking down at my bandaged hand.

"Treat them with respect, and they will treat you with respect. And if any of them ever hurts you, you tell me or Jaskier or Ciri or Yen or Eskel, and we will make them regret it. Even if it is Eskel who hurt you. He might be right hand to the Wolf, but he's not above the law," she concluded firmly.

Her words shattered my world view, eradicated everything I'd taken for granted, and freed my mind from the shackles I'd imposed on it.

 _You're stronger than that._ It was something I'd needed to hear so badly. Yes, I was stronger than that, but I hadn't let myself believe it.

And the other things she'd said, the offer to defend me, to protect me – it felt good. I hated that I had to rely on others, that I wasn't independent and strong and self-reliant. I wanted to be like the mountain lions, hunting alone, needing no other lions for company. But, instead, I appeared to be the lone wolf, who'd die sooner or later, and Triss had just offered me a pack. Wolves that would defend me just because they could.

Could I accept this? Could I open up to these strange people?

I wanted to, but I knew that I couldn't quite yet. With time, maybe. I had the whole winter ahead of me, after all.

And Eskel… I should probably talk to him, explain a few things, and hope he'd still accept me. I'd treated him with distrust, cautiously; I'd expected him to lash out, to behave like Witchers were supposed to behave. And when he hadn't, I'd panicked.

"How?" I finally asked. Triss was still sitting in front of me, like a dark guardian angel, her black wings hidden in the shadows of the room. The sun had set while we'd been talking, and the only light came from the small fire in the hearth and the fluorescent green potion on the table.

I hoped she wouldn't ask me to specify my question because I couldn't. How should I do this? How is it even possible? How did she know? How could I change? How should I deal with Eskel?

She sighed. "It's going to be a fight every day for a while, darling. All you can do is fight, face your monsters. And I promise you, with a Witcher at your side, monsters don't have the faintest chance."

* * *

When we finally went down for supper, I was still contemplating her words. I was so lost in thought that I didn't realise how the Witchers stared at me when I sat down.

"What happened?" Leo asked sharply, and I focused my gaze on him. There was a scowl on his face, and for the first time, he looked just as terrifying as the White Wolf.

"Um…" I mumbled. I had the feeling I'd missed an essential part of the conversation. _Everybody_ was staring at me, Leo, and Gwen, and Tjold, and Berengar, and Vesemir, and Eskel, and –

the White Wolf. _Fuck_.

They all looked somewhat angry, their eyes intently focused on me, and I felt fear sneaking up my spine. I must've done something terribly wrong for them to look at me like that.

"You smell like blood," Leo clarified, his eyes tracing my face and neck, and I stiffened. I'd completely forgotten about the cuts. It was only a dull ache now, lurking in the back of my mind.

Wait… Witchers could _smell_ blood. Even the few drops that must've soaked into the bandage. That was going to be _awkward_ when I got my monthlies. I'd probably have to hide in my room for days. Shit. I hadn't even thought about it.

And the scowl on Leo's face was… concern?

Quickly, I held my hand up. "Cut myself," I explained, showing them the bandage around my palm.

Leo visibly relaxed, as did the other Witchers. Considering the life they'd led, they should be accustomed to blood, right? Maybe they didn't like the smell? Weird.

Carefully, I looked back to the middle of the table, but the White Wolf's attention had turned to Jaskier; however, amber eyes were searching my gaze. Eskel looked a little uncomfortable, like there was an itch between his shoulder blades he couldn't reach.

I tried to smile at him to tell him I was all right, but it probably looked like something between a grimace and a baring of teeth because Eskel didn't react at all. To expect a smile back was probably too much.

Quickly, I concentrated on the simple fresh food and listened to Leo and Tjold arguing about a werewolf hunt. I learned much more about evil creatures and monsters than I'd ever wanted to know, but from a scientific point of view, it was quite interesting. I certainly didn't want to go out and test that knowledge against real life.

Finally, Jaskier stood up in his bright orange doublet, climbed on the table, and performed a few happy, fast songs. Some I knew from before, some he'd definitely composed himself. They were a little silly, funny at times, and I found myself smiling.

Sometimes, I'd heard, the White Wolf and the Witchers stayed until late in the night in the mess hall, singing and drinking and talking, and I was sure that someday I'd like to join them, but for now, I preferred a quiet evening. I could go for a walk, maybe. I hadn't been outside today, and I missed the fresh air.

So I waited until the Witchers were distracted – some had grabbed a partner and started to dance – and excused myself. Triss smiled at me and nodded, which sufficed as a permission to leave. As quietly as I could, I walked to the side door and followed the corridor to the staircase, went down, got lost for a bit, and finally found the exit to the yard that overlooked the valley.

A silver moon had risen and cast the keep into an eerie white glow. It almost seemed a little unreal, this lone stone structure surrounded by snowy mountains. The air was cold and crisp, and it smelled like snow and the herbs of Triss' garden. I could very faintly hear the Witchers singing, reminding me that Kaer Morhen was very much alive.

As was I.

Triss words had freed me. I could leave this keep tomorrow, take a horse and travel to my sisters in the South. It might be warmer there.

I didn't actually want to go, not really. (I knew they'd take me in and care for me, but they couldn't protect me from my brother the way the White Wolf could. Also, I didn't want to burden them.) It was enough to know that I _could_.

The valley stretched beneath me, the river sparkling faintly in the moonlight. I felt like spreading my wings and fly.

(Unfortunately, I had no wings.)

Instead I climbed up on one of the stone walls surrounding the courtyard, easily a metre wide, spread my arms, felt the icy north wind blowing through the fabric of my dress. I didn't mind the cold, not right now. I loosened the silk band, with which I'd tied my hair, and combed through the braid in two long strikes. I loved how the wind pushed it in my face, then tugged it away again.

I felt like the queen of this valley. Like a wolf queen who'd finally, finally found a pack.

So I opened my mouth, threw my head back, and _howled_.

* * *

Eskel watched the duchess leave. Her absence felt like a loss, like the hall had lost some of its brilliance, the singing its joy.

The smell of her blood had sent his heart racing. He'd smelled it before, three days ago, but it hadn't bothered him that much then. To smell it now meant someone _here_ had hurt her, and Eskel would find out who and dismember –

It was just a cut.

 _Still_. Of course, the Witcher didn't mind blood, was used to it – but _her_ blood. Fuck. She was human. She didn't heal like Witchers did. It was the same with Jaskier, but he had Elven blood, so he could survive a great deal more than a normal human could.

"Eskel, darling, stop glowering and follow her," Yen said, leaning over.

"I'm not glowering," Eskel replied a little petulantly.

"You do," said the White Wolf under his breath, and Eskel threw him a dirty look. He was one to talk.

Nevertheless, Eskel got up and followed the scent of the duchess towards one of the terraces that overlooked part of the gardens and the valley. When he stepped outside, his heart nearly stopped for too many reasons.

Christina was standing on the wall, her arms spread, her hair streaming in the wind. She was bathed in moonlight; the silver embroidery on her dress was sparkling as if she was adorned by rain drops and stardust.

Gods, she was beautiful.

But, at the same time, Eskel's chest constricted painfully with fear. What was the bloody woman doing up there? A fall meant certain death for these fragile humans. She could lose her balance or – gods forbid – _jump_.

Automatically, Eskel tensed, ready to run, leap over the wall and catch her. He hadn't especially _enjoyed_ the experience where he'd broken his spine and crushed his bones, but he would survive it.

Well, probably.

Perhaps he could even grab onto a battlement. The momentum would certainly dislocate his shoulder, but that was a minor problem.

But –

But the duchess didn't jump. She just stood there for a few heartbeats, and Eskel could smell wild joy, spicy and elating and triumphant, before she tilted her head back and _howled_.

Fuck.

This woman was going to be the death of him.

His wolf responded the way it only ever had to Geralt. Eskel wanted to throw his head back and howl with her, sing with her the wolf's song, praise the moon, and freedom, and beauty. He wanted to be her pack, just like he was Geralt's pack.

Christina's howling turned into delighted laughter, and Eskel thought he'd never heard anything more magnificent. He wanted to hear her laugh forever, wished this perfect moment would never end.

At the same time, he felt like he was intruding on something very private, very precious, but he just couldn't tear himself away.

Finally, Christina turned around and jumped back down to the courtyard. Her forest eyes sparkled with delight and there were goose bumps on her exposed neck – of course, it must be bloody freezing – and she looked _right at him_.

Eskel's breath caught in his throat.

But then, the duchess just _smiled_ – as if she'd known he'd been there all along, as if she liked that he was.

And suddenly, Eskel knew they were going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END... well, not exactly. The epilogue is still left.


	4. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear/ I rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christina faces her demons. Eskel has a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support, your comments, kudos and bookmarks!
> 
> Title from "Still I rise" again.  
> TW for violence and mentions of rape.
> 
> This was an extremely hard chapter to write, and I hope you'll like it.

_Two weeks later._

“The portal will bring us directly to their camp,” Triss said, letting her gaze glide over everyone of us – Eskel, Leo, Jaskier, and the White Wolf – and finally resting on me. “Are you ready?”

I knew she was asking me because, in the end, it was my decision. Did I still want to go? Did I still feel ready to face the soldiers who’d brought me here?

We were cutting it a little close, I knew that. Soon, they’d pass into remaining Redania, and it could be considered an act of war if the White Wolf abducted Redanian soldiers there. But, for now, they were still in his lands, and he was able to pass judgement on them for the crimes they committed here.

I looked to Jaskier, who seemed a little apprehensive, his blue eyes worried, but he nodded when he met my gaze, telling me I was ready.

(Because I was. I _was_.)

I didn’t need to come. The White Wolf had agreed to take them back to Kaer Morhen, or kill them there, or do whatever my wish was, and I appreciated his generosity – but I needed to go myself.

The White Wolf stood at Jaskier’s side, his dark leather armour making him even more imposing, and the steel sword on his back was practically calling for bloodshed. He, too, watched me, waited, his golden eyes gentler than I ever thought they could be. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with him yet – his presence was sometimes suffocating in its intensity – but I trusted him. He’d told me the first monster he’d slain had been a man.

(A man who’d tried to rape a girl.)

(I wasn’t entirely sure how much he knew about what had happened – Jaskier knew and Triss, but the White Wolf? I didn’t think so. I was pretty sure he only told me to emphasise that he knew men could me monsters too, and that he wasn’t above hunting them. Which probably everybody in the North knew anyway – I mean, he was the bloody _Warlord_.)

Still, he’d taken my side without questioning my motives. He’d told me he’d never planned on letting them get away. But instead of _him_ playing judge, jury, and executioner, it’d be me.

This was only the first step. My brother would get what was coming to him as well, but I wasn’t ready for that. The soldiers, though, had a certain… expiry date. We had to move now.

“I am,” I said smoothly, putting my hand on the light sword that Ciri used for training to emphasise my point. She’d lent it to me for this excursion, even though I was quite sure I wouldn’t need it, being accompanied by three Witchers and a mage.

I could feel Eskel shift a little closer to me, his arm almost brushing mine, and I soaked up all the comfort I could from that gesture. I’d trained tirelessly with Ciri and him, but it still wasn’t enough time to make me even a partly-competent fighter in such a short amount of time, and I knew he worried.

Leo mirrored Eskel’s movement when the portal appeared, as if the soldiers would jump through and attack as.

“Be careful,” Jaskier said, and I wasn’t entirely sure who he was talking to.

“Of course,” the White Wolf replied, giving the bard a look that would make my knees melt if it were directed at me, but I knew it was love in his gaze not wrath.

Jaskier nodded, but his cornflower eyes jumped back to me. He knew there was no danger to the Wolf in this, but I… I was the weak link. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d handle facing my torturers, but I prayed for strength.

The White Wolf went through the portal first, closely followed by Eskel, Leo and me, and finally Triss.

We appeared on a field, a little off the main road, and sheltered on one side by bushes. The ground was frozen but without snow. Kaer Morhen was hidden underneath a thick layer of white powder by now, and the Witchers had to clear the snow away from the training grounds twice a day. (It was fun to watch them grumbling and cursing while throwing whole carts of snow into the abyss with a strength any human could only dream of. Most of the times, this exercise ended in a snow ball fight, which was one of the best parts of my day. I mean _Witchers_ fighting like five year olds, rolling in snow and laughing – it was freaking adorable!)

Dark clouds travelled lazily over the sky and covered the crescent moon. It was pitch black. Well, almost. The soldier’s campfire was clearly visible, a literal beacon in the night, and I could see the outlines of the horses and the men huddled around the fire.

There was no guard. How sloppy.

We walked slowly towards them, not bothering to muffle the crunch of frozen earth beneath our feet. The steel in the Witchers’ hands caught the light for a second, announcing the danger.

One of the soldiers leapt to his feet – I couldn’t see who in the darkness – crying out in alarm and pointing at us. Instantly, the other four were on their feet too, their swords drawn.

“Who’s there?”

I signalled for the Witchers to wait and made one step towards the men, then another. I rather felt than saw how Eskel tensed, how Leo gripped his sword tighter, how Triss readied her chaos, and how the White Wolf glowered. Their worry, their protectiveness touched something deep inside me, and I felt safe. My pack had my back.

I walked slowly to the edge of circle cast by the fire. I wanted the monsters to recognise me –

and they did.

And because they were fools, they lowered their swords.

“Did you miss us, sweetheart?” Marten called, and I felt bile rising in my throat. That voice, that name – _sweetheart_ – that smile on his face. I wanted to wipe it away, wanted him to beg for mercy.

But I controlled my rage.

“Melitele’s tits, it’s the duchess,” Alfred said, the guard who’d hindered my escape.

“How did she come –” one of the others began – clearly the only one whose head wasn’t only good for wearing hats – but Marten interrupted him.

“Aw, I feel special now, sweetheart. Thought you’d be dead by now. Did you not meet the White Wolf’s standards? I mean, you were a decent fuck, but –”

A growling from behind me interrupted him, and suddenly Eskel materialised to my right, the White Wolf to my left.

All air had left my lungs. Hearing Marten’s spiteful words, seeing his complete indifference towards me and what he’d done… it felt like tar on my soul, blackening me, corrupting me. I hated that he made me feel so worthless and disgusted at myself, as if his hands on my body had marked me, tainted me.

(I knew it wasn’t true.)

And now Leo knew, and the White Wolf, and… fuck, _Eskel_.

I felt ashamed and angry, like Marten had ripped my chest open and showed everybody my heart, my secrets, my tainted soul.

Eskel’s growl deepened, probably smelling my distress, and I quickly gathered myself. I’d decided to come and now I had to deal with the consequences. I’d foolishly hoped the soldiers might realise that their behaviour had been wrong or, at least, that they’d be scared by my sudden appearance, unharmed and decidedly not defenceless anymore. But I’d been wrong.

However, Eskel’s and the White Wolf’s body heat at my side gave me strength. They were tiny little suns compressed in human bodies, that’s how warm they felt in the winter air.

“Brought your bodyguards?” Marten asked, full of false bravado. His body language betrayed his nonchalance, though; he’d lifted his sword again, shifted into a defensive stance. I wished I could smell fear because I wanted to _know_ that he was afraid, I wanted him to tremble like I had trembled, to not be able to breathe, to cower at the mercy of others…

“Shit. The – the – the White Wolf,” one of the others cried out, clearly a more healthy reaction. He made a step back, turned towards the horses, as if he thought he could _run_ from us. Foolish. They were surrounded now, Leo and Triss standing behind them.

I took the men a moment to realise their predicament, but when they did, I could finally see the naked panic I’d yearned for. They paled, their movements stilled, completely transfixed by the Witchers’ yellow eyes, like a doe before the hunter, afraid to even breathe.

(And for a few heartbeats, it made me feel damn powerful.)

The moment seemed to stretch into eternity. The world hung motionless and silent, waiting, waiting, waiting –

and then, everything happened at once.

The soldiers panicked. One tried to run, but Triss knocked him out before he could take more than two steps. The others reacted the only way they ever learned to – they attacked. I knew the White Wolf could handle all three of them alone, but they didn’t seem to realise that they were vastly outnumbered.

Steel swords gleamed orange in the firelight, movements so fast they blurred together in the darkness, screams and chaos.

Eskel instantly pushed me back, putting his body as shield between me and the attackers, and met the sword of the first soldier. Within the blink of an eye, all of them were unarmed and on the ground, kneeling before me as if I was their goddess… or their executioner.

“What do you want, _duchess_?” Marten spit my former title, like it was an insult, eying the blade in my hand. Eskel’s right hand was fisted in his hair, baring Marten’s throat and holding him on the ground, his left hand held the tip of a dagger to the nape of his neck. One wrong move and it would draw blood. However, Marten didn’t care, fighting Eskel’s hold like a maniac. “You can’t kill us. The Archduke –”

“The Archduke gives a rat’s ass about you,” Eskel interrupted him, tugging at Marten’s hair in a way that must hurt.

“Who says I want to kill you?” I said, venturing forward, daring myself to step into Marten’s personal space – he was unarmed, after all. I could see that he was sweating now, drops ran from his temple and disappeared in his beard. He was shaking hard, fighting Eskel’s restraints, and I could practically _taste_ the hatred and wrath coming off him, metallic and bitter. 

“I want to bind your hands and tie you to a horse. And then, I want to watch you _run_. Sound familiar?” Abruptly, I turned towards Alfred and pierced him with my gaze, but his grey eyes were hidden beneath a mop of black hair. I made a step towards him, pain and rage bleeding into my voice. “I want to cut off your tiny cocks and feed them to you.”

They gasped, but I wasn’t finished. Slowly, I walked past Alfred, so close I could touch him if I wanted to – or punch him. But I didn’t.

“I want to break your hands and fingers, so you’ll never be able to hit a woman again or hold a sword to someone’s throat.” The next soldier – Kurt – flinched back from my presence, his eyes downcast, and I circled around him and Leo, like a predator circled its prey. Finally, I walked back to Marten – every step deliberate and unnaturally loud in the breathless silence. I relished in the way he tried to turn his head but couldn’t.

Stopping in front of him, I finished, “And then, _maybe_ , I’ll let you go, and you can go back to my brother to deliver a message.”

Marten made a sound deep in his throat – I’d call it a growl, but after having heard the White Wolf growl, the sound hardly registered. “You won’t do it. You don’t have the stomach for torture, sweetheart.” I forced myself not to flinch – that nickname haunted my dreams – but he noticed it anyway, the tiny muscle movement, the stifled gasp, and took it as victory. “You wouldn’t be so brave without these mutant freaks at your side,” he sneered. This guy seemed to have no survival instincts whatsoever. “Tell me, bitch, did you fuck all of them?”

Before I could react, Eskel pulled the man forcefully backwards, so he lay sprawled on the ground. His dagger flew through the air, a flash of silver, and embedded itself deeply in the juncture of Marten’s thighs. He gasped, a strangled sort of cry turning into a howl, and doubled over with pain.

I stared at him, at the blood soaking his trousers, just a tad darker than his clothing, and felt… _nothing_. Absolutely nothing.

“Christina?” the White Wolf asked, more a snarl than a word, and if I didn’t know him, I’d be mortally afraid. It was enough, though, to startle me out of my morbid fascination.

“Answer me one question,” I began, drawing my sword and turning to Alfred, who kneeled on the cold ground, the White Wolf’s sword at his throat. “Do you regret it?”

The soldier looked at me, surprised, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. I didn’t know why it was so important to me that they felt remorse, but it _was_. I didn’t want them to die until they knew what they’d done, until they felt the raw pain of guilt, a pain that gutted them, a heavy weight on their conscience for the rest of their days.

Alfred wasn’t totally stupid. He knew that pretending to show repentance might get him out of here unharmed, or at least alive.

(It wouldn’t.)

“Yes, duchess,” he said, and the White Wolf’s snarl deepened. A lie. Of course, a lie.

“You will,” I said coldly, turning to the soldier at Leo’s feet. “And you, Kurt?”

The man flinched, his eyes darting over to his comrades, to Marten still sobbing on the floor. “I regret it deeply, duchess.”

“Liar,” Leo said, his voice husky with menace, his knife digging deeper into the man’s skin, drawing blood.

I shouldn’t have expected anything else. And still, it fucking hurt.

The sword in my hand trembled slightly, even though I tried my best to hold it steady, when I pointed it at the last soldier. He was held down by Triss’ magic. “Any regrets?”

The man looked up, his face contorted by rage, unguarded, pure hatred in his eyes. “Only that we didn’t kill you when we had the chance.”

His words hit me like a punch, his hatred like a physical force. A part of me wanted to drive my sword through his gut, the other part wanted to run far, far away. Triss, however, wasn’t in two minds about it. She made an angry hissing sound like an attacking cat, and her magic swirled around her like electric sparks. With a _pop_ , the man’s shoulder dislocated. He half-sobbed half-screamed, then doubled over and vomited on the grass.

Hastily, I stepped away, back, back, breathed in deeply through my mouth, but the smell of vomit and smoke had already filtered through my nostrils. I’d thrown up when –

_No!_

Flashes of memories flitted through my mind –

a face sneering over me –

a kick to the ribs –

malicious laughter when I fell to the floor and couldn’t get up again –

the flickering shadows of the fire –

the smell of smoke and vomit and unwashed human –

the sound of tearing fabric –

I felt bile rose in my throat. I didn’t want them to have this power over me, but they did – and it felt _terrible_. They made me feel weak, and useless, und so utterly _small_.

Suddenly, Triss’ hand was on my shoulder, supporting me. Her touch, her warm presence beside me gave me focus, grounded me in the presence. _My pack_. I wasn’t weak because I had my pack.

I didn’t need to prove anything to them.

(That was the reason I’d come, wasn’t it? I’d wanted to prove something, to the monsters who’d hurt me and to myself. But I didn’t need to.)

Eskel, Triss, Leo, Jaskier, even the White Wolf, they simply accepted me; they treated me as an equal not a possession; they saw something of worth in me – I wasn’t quite sure what. I hadn’t felt this valued since… ever. Not at university. Certainly not at home. It was like sitting in front of a fire enveloped in furs, a cup of hot milk with honey in my hand, and a warm feeling in my chest.

I straightened and gave Triss the smallest of smiles, her hand still on my back. Slowly, I let my gaze travel over the terrified soldiers and the angry Witchers who only waited for my word to hurt and maim and kill.

“You can do whatever you want with them, as long as it _hurts_ ,” I said without inflection, and the answering growl of the Witchers was almost smug.

The soldiers were a whimpering mess now, finally realising the seriousness of the situation, realising that this was the end. (Oh, they might live for a few more days, maybe even _weeks_ , but they’d never be the same.)

“Let’s go,” Triss said, turning around to make a portal for me. Blue light flickered over the field, a little too bright, and then there was a rip in the fabric of the world, a window to safety.

“Eskel, go,” the White Wolf rumbled, “Leo, Triss, and I can handle the situation.”

Eskel gave me a questioning smile that I couldn’t mirror. His pupils were blown to accommodate for the low light, but his irises glowed like the sun around them, and I could read worry there. Worry for me.

So I nodded. It meant, _come with me_ , and Eskel understood.

He kicked Marten in the gut, easily breaking a few ribs, and the soldier gave a screech of pain. With a last ditch effort to save himself, he began to crawl towards the horses, leaving a trail of dark blood on the frozen grass in his wake, which glittered eerily, almost purple, in the light of the portal.

Eskel clicked his tongue disapprovingly. With just one step, he reached the crawling soldier, stamping on his hand with force and malintent. The slightly sickening sound of breaking bones echoed over the field, quickly drowned out by another wet scream. With wide eyes, I watched Eskel bow down, saying something too low for me to hear, then grab the knife the soldier still clutched and drive it through his _other_ hand.

Marten’s blood-curdling scream rang eerily over the field, scaring some birds, which flew up cawing. Their complaints, however, were lost in the sounds Marten made – but I couldn’t bring myself to feel pity.

All I could see was Eskel.

With a grim smile on his face, he stood up, inky blood as black as the night dripping from the blade. He looked a little like a harbinger of pain and destruction, the screamed sobs of Marten his symphony, his thirst for blood merely woken rather than sated.

A shiver went down my spine.

However, then the Witcher looked at me, and all the gloom and foreboding faded. Suddenly, he was just _Eskel_ , still dangerous, wolf-like, but familiar. And all I could think was, _Melitele, that man is handsome_. (Which was entirely inappropriate.)

The Witcher approached so slowly, so cautiously, as if a wrong move would send me running, the dagger instantly hidden in its sheath, his scar again turned away from the light.

“Eskel,” I whispered, reaching for him, and so tentatively, as if he couldn’t really believe I wanted to touch him, he took my hand. His skin was warm; his hand that could break a neck easily was gentle; his strength, with which he could swing a sword so powerfully, was controlled.

“Christina,” he replied. My name. Not duchess, not sweetheart. Me.

Together, we stepped through Triss’ portal into the warmth, and it snapped close behind us. The familiar smells – of dust and sulphur and fresh bread – and sounds of Kaer Morhen – the cackling of fire and the humming of Jaskier’s lute – welcomed us. We stood in the council room just as before, as if we’d never left.

A thousand miles away, five soldiers were screaming.

And I felt nothing.

(Was this justice or was this revenge?)

I let go of Eskel’s hand, made a step towards the door, but my knees were suddenly like jelly. The tension and adrenaline had kept me functioning until now, but without them, I felt empty and burned out. The barricades in my mind were crumbling, stone by stone, memories pushing through. Ciri’s sword slipped through my numb fingers and clattered to the ground, the sound so startling that I flinched.

“Darling?” Eskel murmured, standing right next to me, his hands hovering inches over my shoulders, afraid to reach for me, unsure if his touch would be welcome. He was waiting for permission, for consent to comfort me, to hold me.

That twisted something inside my chest, and I let myself fall forward into his body. His arms snuck around my waist instantly, holding me steady, holding me close. The smell of leather and lavender and pure Eskel surrounded me, covering me in security and warmth, like a blanket and hot chocolate.

For a few precious seconds, I was all right.

“Christina?” I heard Jaskier’s concerned voice behind me, but I didn’t want to move.

Still, I jumped away as if bitten, not wanting to show weakness in front of the bard. I knew he worried, he cared, but I didn’t want to admit how badly this had shaken me. I was stronger than this, stronger than them.

_I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m–_

“Fine. Yes, I heard that,” Jaskier interrupted me, and I realised I’d spoken out loud. “What…?” he silenced himself, began again, gentler, “Do you want to…?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk, or drink some tea, or hear one of his songs. I wanted to hide. I wanted to feel all right. I wanted to feel safe.

Holding myself rigidly upright, I stalked past him to the door. One wrong move and my façade would collapse like a house of cards, one spark and my control would go up in flames, one touch and the walls that held my memories would disintegrate.

I could practically _hear_ the meaningful gazes the Witcher and the bard exchanged, but I ignored them.

Then, Eskel was back by my side, not quite touching but close. He didn’t say a word, just followed me through empty, draughty, dark hallways up to my room. I walked on autopilot, my only thought was: _hold it together, hold it together just a little bit longer_.

Eskel opened my door and let me enter. There was a fire blazing in the hearth and its warmth was surprising. I’d expected cold and darkness and hollowness, I didn’t know why. With stiff movements, I took off my cloak and my boots.

When I turned around, Eskel was still standing there, his gaze like fierce sunshine.

 _Now, he knows_ , my mind whispered. _Maybe he’ll no longer train you. Maybe your friendship is over now._

My stomach dropped, and ice spread through my chest. I wanted to push him away before he could do the same, before he could say all the things I thought about myself anyway, so I opened my mouth, hateful, angry, desperate words on my tongue.

But all I managed was, “Please.”

_Please don’t leave me._

I didn’t say it, but it hung in the air between us.

With one step, Eskel bridged the distance between us, and I was back in his arms, shaking, and crying, and fucking vulnerable, but I didn’t care. I was beyond caring. I was falling apart –

falling –

falling –

“You’re safe,” Eskel whispered.

* * *

Christina’s felt small in his arms, smaller than she was, shaking and sobbing incoherently.

“You’re safe. It’s over, darling,” Eskel murmured over and over and over again, sitting them down on the bed and trying to give her all the comfort he could give.

A part of him wanted to go back and break every bone in that soldier’s body, the one that had made her so afraid, so ashamed. He wanted to do bloody, violent, terrible things, but –

but Christina needed him. That stopped him, kept him by her side like gravity.

Eskel looked up when he heard Jaskier approach. The bard glanced around the doorframe, bit his lip, closed his eyes, then nodded and locked the door, giving them privacy.

The Witcher hated the smell of Christina’s tears, of her pain. Why had he let her come? Why had she done that to herself?

They’d raped her, godsdamnit. There was nothing more cowardly in this world than a man trying to claim a woman using force.

The careless revelation had hit him like the kick of a hippogriff. There was suspecting it, and there was _knowing_ it.

And Eskel didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. He felt like he’d failed to protect her, and he hadn’t even known her then. But his guilt and his rage over what had happened didn’t help Christina.

So he pushed them down, down, down, into the deep corners of his heart. Even though Eskel wanted to hurt the men himself, he knew that Geralt would take care of everything. This gave him enough self-control to suppress his vengeful urges.

Finally, Christina’s sobs quietened and she went stiff in his arms. There was something new in her smell, shame and… fear?

“Darling?” Eskel asked carefully. He knew he should let her go, but he couldn’t. He wanted to know her safe in his arms. But if she feared him… then she wasn’t safe.

It almost physically hurt the Witcher to lift his arm from her shoulder and to shift slightly away, so that there was a margin of space between them. He felt like she might disappear if he only as much as blinked; her protective walls would come back up, and she’d be cold and distant again. He understood that reaction, but he wished _she_ would understand that she didn’t need to prove to him how strong she was. Eskel already knew that.

“Do you see me differently now?” Christina asked so low that only Witcher’s ears could’ve heard her. And there it was, the sour scent of fear – but she didn’t fear _him_ , he realised now, she feared his rejection.

“Never, darling,” Eskel whispered, reaching for her – he couldn’t help it – pulling her back against his chest, and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Her hair smelled softly like soap and lavender oil, like _home_. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Suddenly, Christina shifted and her left hand rested on the vulnerable skin of his right cheek, where a sword had drawn the most terrible scars. “You neither, Eskel.”

Eskel almost didn’t dare to look at her, but when he did…

Christina’s eyes were large and brightly green, swallowing his gaze; tears adorned her lashes. There was a strange emotion in them, and Eskel carefully breathed in through his nose. The smell of fear and shame was gone. Instead, the Witcher found relief mixed with something else… raisins? No, that wasn’t it. Something fruity, sweet, deep.

The way Geralt smelled when he woke up in the morning, Jaskier wrapped around him and Eskel at his other side. The way Jaskier smelled when he was composing a new epic ballad. The way Ciri smelled when she kicked ass in training.

Was that… happiness? Joy? Love?

Something too deep to name.

“I feel like I should have scars, too,” she said lowly, dropping her hand again, and the moment was gone. “I feel like they changed me, deformed me, made a monster out of me…” Eskel opened his mouth to protest. She was no monster, for Melitele’s sake. How could she even think that? But Christina didn’t give him a chance to speak. “But nobody can see it. _You_ can’t see it. And I’m so scared that someday you’ll wake up, and…”

“I won’t,” Eskel promised. “Because I already _can_ see you. You’re the one who doesn’t see the spine of steel, the fire in your eyes, your beauty…”

She scoffed.

“ _Inner_ beauty, Christina.” Carefully, Eskel took her hand and placed it back on his cheek. “You see _my_ scars and are not repulsed by them. Why would I be repulsed by yours – invisible or not?”

The duchess blinked. A last teardrop fell from her lashes. “Jaskier’s song,” she suddenly muttered.

“What?” Eskel asked eloquently, completely caught off guard by her change of topic.

“The new song he wrote. He showed me parts of it… the lyrics, they’re etched into my brain.”

Her fingers slightly travelled over his cheek, following the line of the scar, and butterflies erupted in Eskel’s stomach.

“Tell me,” he breathed, almost too afraid to speak, in case she might stop.

“What are scars,” she began, “but proof you’ve/ survived your wounds, / for wounds/ carry no scars, / only blood.” Her fingertips were as soft as petals, brushing over his lashes and eyebrows to his hairline. “What are scars, / but gold stars for/ lessons presented/ and conquered.”

Her touch left blazing trails down the side of his face, over his jaw line down his neck to his collarbones. She paused a little at the puckered scar Eskel knew she’d find there. All his senses were heightened as if hunting; he _felt_ every touch of her fingertips, her breath on his skin, her accelerated pulse; he _heard_ her swallow, the rustle of her clothes as she moved, the sound her eyelashes made when she blinked; he _smelled_ the lavender on her skin, the fruity scent he couldn’t name, and something underneath that was undeniably, deliciously Christina. Her words filled his chest with warmth. To him, scars meant failure – moving or reacting too slow, assessing the abilities of a monster wrongly – _especially_ the scars on his face.

“What are scars, / but evidence you’ve/ overcome life’s/ most difficult obstacles,” she added, her sweet breath ghosting over his skin, her fingers carrying on their journey over his neck. “What are scars, / but proof of/ your success, / leaving you/ not broken…” She hesitated, and when she continued there was a note of steel in her voice, “… but wiser.”

Eskel let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. Fuck. Jaskier had a way with words… and how Christina had said them, her gentle almost reverent tone, her touch… it felt much more intimate than sex could ever be. This emotional closeness… fuck.

“I agree,” Eskel finally said a little shakily, using all his training to not let his voice break. He wanted to tell her so badly how he felt, how brave and strong she’d been, how much he admired her, how much he _loved_ her. But, fuck, words were not his language.

(He admittedly wasn’t as bad as Geralt, but he was no Jaskier either.)

“Christina,” he rasped helplessly, lifting a hand to place it on her cheek, and she leaned into his touch. That movement almost broke him.

How could she trust him so damn much? How could she want _his_ touch? He was a mutant, a Witcher, neither monster nor man.

And Eskel knew with a sudden clarity that he loved her.

He couldn’t say it, not now, not yet, but he did. It was as much a fact as the sun rising in the east; a truth as brutal as the Trial of Grasses, undeniable.

Of course, he didn’t expect anything back from her, no words, no gifts, no touches not voluntarily given, not even that she loved him back.

(He hoped, though, hoped with all his heart.)

“Eskel,” Christina replied, covering his hand on her cheek with her own and smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, perplexed.

“For being here… for being _you_ …” She swallowed, wetting her lips nervously. “For being my pack.”

A smile bloomed on Eskel’s face. Her pack. So she knew what she was to him.

“I’ll swear to the Wolf, and I’ll do my best to be useful, and I’ll stay here, at your side.” Christina cocked her head slightly, a twinkle in her eyes. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied hastily, cursing himself for his clumsiness. That was not what he’d wanted to say. Again, Eskel wished he’d be better with words.

However, Christina understood. “Good.”

She smiled as brightly as the sun, and the sweet, fruity smell completely took Eskel’s breath away.

* * *

A bit later, they lay on Christina’s bed. Eskel had taken off his shoes and armour and wrapped a blanket around the both of them.

Christina’s head was resting on hollow between his shoulder and his collarbone so perfectly, as if it was made for her. She was breathing deeply, already asleep, tired from the day and the fears she’d overcome. And he thanked whatever gods may be for her unconquerable soul.

She deserved good things in life, happiness and love…

and maybe he did, too.

Eskel’s finger traced lazy patters over her back as he listened to her heartbeat.

He knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, that there would be steps forward and steps back, that she’d push him away again – but he wouldn’t let her – that there were a lot of things they still needed to figure out, things he needed to talk about with her and with Geralt.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Eskel would simply be happy with her warm presence in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's OVER! This was so, so much fun! Thank you for accompanying me on this journey!  
> I know there are more things to tell about these two, more loose ends to tie, but this was as good as I managed. I really hope you liked it. I'm not very good at endings (probably because my WIPs never get an ending^^ This was short for me). I'm also not very good at fluff, I think.  
> And the whole soldier episode... I'm not sure if it works, if Christina's reactions are coherent, if it's not too forced?  
> Please tell me your thoughts!
> 
> Poems: Scars - Kristi Kaye - Hello Poetry  
> “I thank whatever gods may be/ for my unconquerable soul” Invictus, William Ernest Henley
> 
> PS: If there's anything you'd like to read or if you have any suggestions for scenes in this AU, write me a comment! If I feel inspired, I'll write some more one-shots! (This time for real!)
> 
> Thank you!


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